


Spring Back

by earlybloomingparentheses



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Baking, Bathing, Bondage, Bottom Sirius Black, Caning, Christmas, Daddy Kink, Depression, Developing d/s dynamics, Dom/sub, Emotional Processing, Established Relationship, Feeding, Grimmauld Place, Hitting, Kneeling, Lack of desire, M/M, Masturbation, Mental Health Issues, Obedience, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Takes Place During Order of the Phoenix, The existential terror of realizing you enjoy having power over someone, Top Remus Lupin, Under-negotiated Kink, Walburga's portrait, We could probably call this angst, heads up: sirius will not die in this fic, mild ageplay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:02:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27941210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlybloomingparentheses/pseuds/earlybloomingparentheses
Summary: Sirius is stuck inside Grimmauld Place, and Remus feels powerless to help him cope with his declining mental health. Then Sirius requests something they've never tried before. Remus doesn't think he'll particularly enjoy it; when the opposite turns out to be true, he tries to come to terms with what this means for him, and with the fact that it seems to be working for Sirius as well.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 103
Kudos: 276





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure yet how many chapters this will be, but I've got at least a few more planned out. I'll add tags as the need arises, but do note that in future chapters there may be some light ageplay and a bit of Daddy kink, in case you want to avoid that at the outset. I probably don't need to point out that Sirius being stuck inside Grimmauld Place and depressed may echo folks' own experience of quarantine, but keep that in mind as well if you're trying not to think too much about the current situation. <3

Remus had thought hitting Sirius would be relatively easy.

Sirius had requested it. An early Christmas present, he had called it with a wry smile, eyes rueful and shoulders shrugged, like he thought he really was asking Remus for something that would only be acceptable on special occasions. Like the Christmas pudding Remus was begrudgingly feeding with brandy once a day, though the texture unsettled him and the very thought of suet made his stomach churn: a favor, because Sirius was shut up at Grimmauld Place and slowly going out of his mind. But Remus didn’t think this request was like that at all. He had never been particularly rough with Sirius in bed before—they scratched each other sometimes, in the heat of the moment, bright sharp stings as their nails dug into each other’s skin while they panted and groaned—but he wasn’t averse to it. He wanted to make sure he did it right; Sirius wanted a cane, so Remus would need to ensure he didn’t strike too hard and that he had Bruise-Away Balm on hand for afterwards, but that was manageable.

“You’re not embarrassed about wanting it, are you?” he asked Sirius curiously.

Sirius shook his head. His hair, growing longer by the week, fell in shaggy clumps around his face, nearly brushing his shoulders. Remus reached out and pushed it idly behind Sirius’ ear, fingers lingering. Sirius’s skin was cold, as usual.

“Then why do you look as though I’m going to disapprove?”

Sirius blinked. “Oh,” he said. His voice was a bit raspy; it had never quite regained the rich smoothness it had had in his youth. The change gave Remus a pang sometimes, though it did mean Sirius was less apt to sound like an entitled public-school prick. “Not disapprove. Just…not want to.”

“You thought I wouldn’t want to?”

Sirius shrugged. “Do you?”

Remus considered. He thought about standing over Sirius with a whipcord-thin cane, like some bully prefect at one of those public schools. He frowned. “I don’t…not want to. I’m not sure…” He paused, considering. “I’m not sure I have many feelings about it one way or the other. I’m sorry if that’s not what you wanted—”

“No,” said Sirius quickly. “No, that’s all right.”

“You don’t mind if it doesn’t…you know?”

Sirius shrugged again. “I’d’ve liked if you liked it, obviously. But it’s not really your thing, is it?”

“I didn’t know it was yours.”

Sirius sighed. They were seated in one of Grimmauld Place’s less dreadful sitting rooms, a dim parlor with a tapestry depicting a unicorn hunt on one wall and an imposing set of built-in bookshelves on the other. It was ugly and claustrophobic, but better than the room with the actual unicorn horns mounted above the mantel, or the one in which Sirius had once had to endure endless visits with his mean-spirited grandmother who flicked him with her long fingernails when he spoke out of turn. Remus watched as Sirius gazed past him out the room’s one window, where flecks of cold rain spat onto the glass as the grey day faded into greyer night.

“It’s not really. Or it hasn’t been. I mean…” he smiled crookedly, looking briefly at Remus before his gaze once more settled on the dull exterior view, “you’d know if it had, wouldn’t you? No, I just…I’ve been feeling so…” A sigh. “Oh, you know. The usual.” His voice took on a bitter note. “Cooped up. Stale. Unhappy.” He dug the heel of his hand into a stiff brocade pillow. “Like a sulking child. I thought it might make me feel better to be treated like one.”

Remus automatically tucked away the whirl of emotions that arose briefly at Sirius words. No use feeling them right now. “Huh,” he said. “Do you think it’ll…well…”

Sirius hadn’t much wanted sex recently. He hadn’t much wanted to be touched, other than occasional casual contact that almost might have passed for intimacy between friends.

“Get me off?” Sirius laughed, a little more bitterness creeping in. “I don’t know. Probably not. It’ll just feel…” He hesitated. “Like something, I guess.”

_It’ll just feel like something_. Remus swallowed down the words—he could taste Sirius’ bitterness. He tried not to season it further with any of his own.

“Right,” he said. “Well, as long as you’re not punishing yourself, I suppose—”

“Of course I’m punishing myself.” Sirius raised his eyebrows at him. “Do you think I’m not doing that already, daily, every time I can’t be of use because I can’t leave the house? Do you think I’m not doing that every time I snap at you because I’m restless and impatient and can’t shove down my feelings just because I know they’re not helpful?” He wasn’t raising his voice. He barely sounded upset. It was as if this were basic information, matter-of-fact, obvious. “If you’re giving me ten of the best while I’m facedown on the bed, maybe I can convince my brain I’m being punished enough for the moment and it can take a rest.”

Remus stared at him, then looked down at his hands, which were folded in his lap, so that whatever was happening on his face didn’t make Sirius uncomfortable. He was considering, weighing out Sirius’ words. It was not ideal, clearly. This was not precisely healthy. It would be better, of course, for Sirius to deal with his situation more directly; but then again, he was trapped in Grimmauld Place, and there was nothing to be done about it, and though Remus didn’t share the restless itch that had always lingered under Sirius’ skin he could imagine it, and he knew that nothing would really fix Sirius’ problems as long as he was stuck in this house and war was brewing outside. Remus would not hurt Sirius—not injure him, that is. If Sirius wanted pain, if he wanted a break from his mind and body, Remus could manage that, and do it safely. Maybe, he thought with a sudden jump of hope, it would even get Sirius aroused again—but he set that idea aside, gently. It seemed that it wasn’t really the point.

“All right,” said Remus. “I can hit you. I don’t mind. Really.”

Sirius looked a bit relieved. “Good. Er, thanks.” He rested his head against the wooden detailing on the back of the sofa. He looked, Remus thought, either very tired, or simply not really all there.

“I have a cane,” Sirius said to the ceiling. “Several, in fact. Lying somewhere around the house. Great-grand-somethings with bad hips, that sort of thing.”

“All right.”

“I’ll fetch one sometime today, yeah?”

“Sure. Whenever you like.”

All in all, Remus had thought that seeing Sirius’s bare arse—not just incidentally, in the shower or while changing for bed, but exposed and expectant and ready—would be what got to him most. It had been weeks since they’d had sex and two or three months since Sirius had wanted Remus inside him. Remus understood: it wasn’t that Sirius didn’t love him, wasn’t attracted to him, didn’t like him like that anymore; they’d had rather spectacular sex in the year after Azkaban whenever they’d got a chance to be together, so Remus knew it wasn’t that Sirius’ feelings had changed when they’d been apart. It was the house. It was the heavy wood paneling and the portrait of Sirius’ mother and the locked front door. Sirius had retreated somewhere inside himself, or maybe…maybe he’d turned some things off, for protection, for survival. He’d always been so vulnerable when they had sex—not shy or scared, just raw, open, like Remus’ fingers sank right through his skin and touched his nerves, his muscles, his bones. Remus understood why Sirius would want—or, no, would need—to shield himself in armor right now. He must have felt as though one break, one sliver of a crack, would cause him to shake entirely apart.

Remus almost wished his body would do the same. Shut everything off. Instead, his feelings came and he tucked them away in little boxes, waiting for when it was safe enough to open them, looking at them just closely enough to take inventory. He could list off all the things he felt: useless to help Sirius, restless like Sirius, guilty for feeling restless when unlike Sirius he could actually leave the house; terrified of what he would certainly be asked to do for the Order in the near future; and full of grief. A whole swamp of grief, in fact, one that would swallow him whole if he ventured beyond its borders. And, locked up very tightly indeed, he felt resentment toward Sirius for not being able to be there for him right now. He would have spent whole days in bed if Sirius had wanted, whiling away their trapped hours in a haze of sweat and slick bare skin. He would have burrowed into Sirius’ lap every night as they read on the sofa and lost himself in Sirius’ smell. But it was not Sirius’ fault, and Sirius was trying so hard just to keep his head above water, and Remus knew that although being a little bit hurt by Sirius’ lack of desire didn’t make him a bad person, he also knew it wasn’t useful. There was nothing he could do about their situation. He just had to wait it out. And to be steady, and steadfast.

So he tried not to anticipate too eagerly the sight of Sirius’ naked arse, though he knew it would fill him with suppressed arousal. He assumed in fact that he would become immediately erect; assumed his fingers and cock would itch to make their way inside that tight, warm hole he knew to be as soft as silk, as soft as a whisper inside some hidden inner chamber of a cavern or cave. Assumed, too, that he would not be penetrating Sirius that day, perhaps not even touching his cock, and he guessed that the likely dampening of his arousal when he hit Sirius would be, on the whole, welcome.

Sirius stretched out before him. They had thought at first that he might lie face-down atop the bed, a big heavy thing with deep purple sheets and an ornately carved headboard. But Sirius had not found this entirely satisfactory, and Remus was a little worried about the angle. So Sirius got to his knees at the foot of the bed, a blanket wedged underneath for padding, and bent his lower body till his forehead rested on his folded arms, his chest and stomach pressed against the mattress.

“This works,” he said, voice muffled, and then straightened momentarily, hair mussed, and pulled his trousers and pants down to his knees.

Remus let himself really look, just for a minute. As Sirius resumed his face-down position, Remus took in the curves of his arse. It was pale, paler even than the rest of Sirius’ skin, which had taken on a rather wan cast after so long stuck inside. His arsecheeks sagged a bit, as they had not done in his youth; he had gained some weight since taking up residence at Grimmauld place and it was as if his body had not quite known how to distribute it. Remus thought he looked different even from the last time he had seen him like this—his hips were fuller, his thighs a little thicker. He felt a twinge in his chest at having missed the chance to learn all the curves and angles of Sirius’ body as they changed.

But his cock was rising; he had been correct about his own response. Though most days he masturbated once, sometimes twice, he had missed seeing and touching Sirius, and he felt an upward pressure on his trousers as he took in the crease of Sirius’ arsecheeks, the place where they met concealing what Remus knew to be several corkscrews of rough hair and the puckered skin of Sirius’ hole. Remus hoped that he’d at least get to see Sirius’ hole today. Maybe when he was applying the Bruise-Away Balm afterwards. If he still felt aroused then, that is, rather than clinical, which he was more or less expecting. He swallowed.

“Okay,” Sirius said, letting out a long breath into the mattress. “Okay.”

Remus looked at him quickly, returning from his own thoughts. “Are you all right?”

Sirius made a noise—a little annoyed huff—and Remus, frustrated with himself for such an early misstep and, more furtively, frustrated with Sirius for disliking the question, said, “Sorry, I won’t ask you that. Erm…do you…” He cast about for some way to ask that wouldn’t make Sirius feel bad for not knowing exactly what he was feeling. “Can I…start?”

“Yes.”

Sirius knelt there, forehead on his arms, arse bare, still and silent. Remus, after a brief pause, picked up the cane from where it lay next to Sirius on the bed.

It was made of some kind of dark wood. It looked old. It was plain and thin and had sprung back a bit when Remus had flexed it earlier, trying to determine how hard he’d need to hit, and how fast. He had certainly felt clinical then, testing out the rod’s flexibility, its strength. He had given a pillow a few whacks and stopped quickly, feeling foolish. He had thought that testing out the cane reminded him of searching for a wand: _long, supple, a bit springy. With a bite._

Now, he grasped it carefully, lifting it off the ground.

He looked at Sirius again, unmoving. This was…strange. This was very strange. Surely—surely this was not how it was usually done. Remus had read plenty of pornographic stories and though his tastes didn’t incline to the more hardcore material he’d encountered a handful of canings and floggings and spankings and most of the time there was some premise involved, some pretense of naughtiness, of punishment—usually something to do with the receiver being either a _wanton slut_ or a _very bad boy—_ or some exclamation of desire and need. Sirius, silent, almost certainly unaroused, waiting for Remus to hit him felt—it felt—

A wash of terror rose up in Remus’ throat, rocking him back on his heels. _What the fuck_ , he thought, registering the sudden gallop of his pulse with bemusement. He swallowed hard. He looked at the cane in his hand. He brought his other hand up to the wood and gripped it gently, running it through his fist, pushing himself to imagine the instrument connecting with Sirius’ flesh. Hard, but not too hard. A little looseness in the wrist. A bit of a spring back after every blow.

At this mental image another wave of feeling hit Remus and for the first confused second he thought it was more terror: his stomach plummeted, his breath caught; but it wasn’t terror. It was lust.

He gasped, biting off the sound by actually biting his lip, his cock jumping, protesting against its constriction. Oh, Merlin. It _was_ terror, too. He was aroused and he was terrified. The wood of the cane pressed unrelentingly into his clenched fist and he realized with a dizzying rush that he was going to raise the rod up above his head and bring it down on Sirius’ pale, unblemished skin.

“I—I want to hit you,” Remus said, gritting out the words, voice straining to hide the wild racing of his heart. “I want to, Sirius.”

There was a pause. Sirius shifted a bit, still facedown on the bed.

“That’s…good?” he said, sounding a little confused, and a little distant. “Remus, I…is there a problem?”

Remus stared at him. Sirius had asked for this. Sirius wanted this, because he thought it would help him feel better. _No_ , Remus’ thoughts reminded him, _because he thought it would make him feel_ something. Remus tried to calm the buzz of adrenaline, thinking, _Well, either way, this is for Sirius. If you like it, surely that’s all the better, but do what he wants. Now._

_Now, Remus._

He raised the cane.

“I’m going to—”

“Yeah.”

“I—” Remus brought the cane swiftly down. It smacked against Sirius’ left buttock with a dull _thwap._

“Ah,” Sirius gasped out.

Remus froze. The cane raised an inch or so from Sirius’ arse, he froze. “Did—are you o—fuck. Should I…” He breathed. “Keep going?”

“Yes. Don’t keep asking.” Sirius sounded a little irritable. “We said five to begin, and I’ll tell you if I want you to stop before that.”

Remus looked down at the faint red line on Sirius’ arse. It was fading already. Disappointment curled its way up through Remus at the sight; he wanted—he wanted the marks to last.

He raised the cane and hit Sirius again, harder, landing the blow across both arsecheeks this time. Sirius let out another gasp, the sound muffled by the blanket.

Remus—wanted Sirius to gasp…louder.

He hit him again.

“That’s three.” He heard his own voice with a flare of shock: it was rock-steady and firm. He lifted the cane again, something surging through his arm, some electric energy, something he couldn’t name or place, and he brought it down again, feeling it cut through the air, hearing it whistle slightly, and just before it hit its target Remus recognized what he was feeling: it was power. He shuddered in a staggering breath and, dizzy with it, said, “That’s four,” and lifted the cane again. Sirius was twitching slightly, now, the red lines on his arse quite bright, and the desire to make him really squirm exploded like blood in Remus’ mouth—not just the desire, the—the _knowledge_ —that he _could_ —

He hit Sirius again. _Five_ , he thought but did not manage to say, and Sirius yelped and his hips pushed into the bed, trying to get away from the unforgiving rod.

Satisfaction flooded through Remus. It nearly knocked him over, the intensity of it, the vicious bite: _I made him yell._

“Five,” he said aloud, belatedly, and with a clatter the cane dropped to the floor and Remus stumbled back till he was leaning against the wall, hand on his heart, breathing hard.

“R—Remus?” Sirius was stirring. Gingerly, he pushed himself back from the mattress and looked around, wincing as his pinkened arse brushed against the tops of his crumpled trousers and pants. “What…?”

With a great effort of will, Remus got himself under control. He hurried forward again, stopping Sirius from moving with a hand on his lower back.

“You shouldn’t—” He breathed. “Let me take care of these. The balm—”

Sirius was still craning awkwardly over his bent shoulder to look at Remus. “Are we…done, then?”

Remus swallowed. “Oh. Oh. Right. Er. I—do you want—”

“Yeah,” said Sirius slowly. “Yeah, I want more. It was…good.”

“Really?” The word slipped eagerly out of Remus before he could catch it.

“Yeah. A little…odd, I guess, not…not how I normally feel during…but I—want more.”

“Okay.”

But Remus didn’t move. Sirius started to push himself up further, twisting around again, but Remus stopped him. “Stay down, then.”

“But you…” Sirius took him in, as best he could from the awkward angle. “Oh. _Oh_. You’re—you’re really turned on, aren’t you?”

Heat flared up in Remus’ face. “I…yeah. I’m sorry if…”

“Sorry?”

“Well, I know this isn’t supposed to be about me—”

“Oh, bugger off,” Sirius said, sounding nearly cheerful. “I’m hardly going to complain if it gets you going. As long as you don’t mind that I won’t, er…necessarily be able to…”

“No,” Remus said. “No, of course, that’s okay—”

“Then we’re fine. Do it again.” Sirius shoved his face back into the mattress and shoved his arse back up in the air.

Four red lines. The first had faded completely, but the others were still there.

Remus kneaded his cock through his trousers, just a few hard presses. He picked up the cane. It felt right in his hand. It felt good. It was terrifying how good it felt.

“I’m going to…” He swallowed. That wasn’t how he’d meant to sound. He firmed up his voice, let just a trickle of what was coursing through his veins seep in. “I’m going to hit you again, Sirius. Five lashes, quick. You’re…” His voice trembled. “You’re going to take what I give you.”

They both gasped a little at these words. Remus raised the cane. His hand was shaking slightly. All he’d been fucking wanting to be able to do was make Sirius better, make him happier, make him want to be touched, to fucking force him to eat his greens and jog up and down the stairs and do all the things that would help with Sirius’s depression if Sirius weren’t too depressed to do them, all Remus had been wanting was to let himself _out_ of the little _box_ where he’d been keeping himself safe till the worst of it all passed—and he hadn’t felt this good, this strong, this capable, this powerful, in a long, long time.

He brought down his arm. The cane sliced through the air, then landed. Sirius let out a pained little grunt. Remus raised the cane again and swiftly released it. S _mack._ He did it again, and again, and then again.

Sirius was panting, whimpering audibly. He was squirming, twisting his hips but keeping them up, keeping them raised. _Good_ , Remus thought with a clear sharp satisfaction, _good, that’s what he should be doing_.

“More,” Sirius said hoarsely. “More, please, Remus, fuck, please—”

Remus clenched his fist, the one not holding the cane, and counted silently to ten. “No,” he said evenly.

“Please, I—”

A flare of anger rose in Remus. “I said no. You’ve had enough.”

“But I want—”

“ _Quiet_.”

Abruptly, Sirius shut up.

“You are not in a fit state to decide what’s good for you,” Remus said. “I will decide what’s good for you.”

And that…fuck. As much as some wild unleashed thing inside him would have liked nothing more than to keep raising red welts on Sirius’ skin, that thing was…calmed, somehow, by Remus’ own words. Hitting Sirius was good. Telling Sirius he wouldn’t hit him anymore was also…good.

He rested the cane against the wall and collected the Bruise-Away Balm from the bedside table. “I want you fully on the bed, please.”

Sirius complied. Remus glimpsed his face through his curtain of messy hair and saw half-glazed eyes and a slight crease of pain between his eyebrows.

“Up,” said Remus, and shifted Sirius into his lap so that his bare, reddened arse was in reach. Heart skipping a beat, he touched one of the red marks.

“Does that hurt?” he asked, pressing down gently.

“Yes,” Sirius said, a slight catch in his voice.

Remus faltered. “Is it good?”

“Yes.”

He pressed down a little harder. Sirius inhaled tightly. Remus stopped. He did it again. Again, Sirius sucked in a quick, audible breath.

Power. Yes, that was the word for it, the thing spiraling up through Remus’ chest.

“Do you…have to get rid of them?” Sirius asked. His voice was a bit slow, a bit thick.

Remus looked at the bruise balm in his hand. “You want to keep feeling them?”

“Yes.”

He ran his fingers gently over the marks. He wasn’t a Healer. He didn’t know what would be a problem to leave untreated. He thought that probably the bruises were all fine. None of them, despite the dizzying sensation of the cane slicing through the air as Remus had wielded it, were very deep.

“I’m going to put some balm on this one,” Remus said, pressing at a spot where a cluster of broken blood vessels was already purpling beneath the skin. He uncapped the jar and scooped out a little of the translucent cream. He rubbed it into the welt and watched it fade gradually under his fingers.

“That’ll take a little while to be fully effective,” Remus said. “We might need to put it on again later.”

Sirius hummed an acknowledgment. He shifted a little in Remus’ lap. “You’re hard.”

“Yes,” said Remus carefully. “Please don’t worry about it.”

“You wanna do something about it?” His voice still had that lazy, almost soupy quality. “Yourself, I mean.”

“I…” Remus swallowed hard. He was buzzing, still, and with more than just arousal.

“I’ll watch,” offered Sirius.

Remus bit his lip. Sirius moved himself off Remus’ lap, lying pressed up against his side, head coming to rest by Remus’ hip.

“Go on.”

Remus unzipped his trousers and extracted his tender cock from his straining pants. He gave it a few strokes, breathing in slowly as he looked down at Sirius, who was watching him peacefully.

“I really fucking liked it,” he blurted out. “Fuck, Sirius, I—I really liked it.”

“Yeah?” Sirius smiled a little. “That’s good.”

“No, I—” Remus shook his head, frustration spilling out, his fists clenched. “It was—really intense. Like, really.”

He had to make Sirius understand. Sirius was looking at him with a knowing little smile, as if Remus had just discovered he enjoyed rimming or sex standing up. “I wanted to hit you. I wanted it so badly. I wanted to see you bruise. I wanted to make you—I wanted to make you _cry_ , Sirius, I wanted to make you _scream._ I wanted to—to—do whatever I wanted with you—with your body. It felt…” He sucked in a breath. “It felt like I was so powerful. Like I could—could do anything I wanted with you. I had the cane in my hand and it—it just hit me, that—that I _could_. I could move my arm down and hit the cane against your skin and you would feel it. I could actually, actually hurt you. And I—” He was trembling. “I really fucking liked it.”

Sirius bent his head forward and kissed Remus’s hip. “Good.”

“Is it?” Remus whispered.

“Yes.”

“But…” Remus looked at Sirius’ arse, mostly curved away from him now but still with the edges of the marks in sight. He had wanted, really wanted, to hit Sirius. “But do you…”

Sirius kissed Remus’ hip again. “Yeah. I think I do.”

“You’re not…”

“Hard? No. But I…didn’t really expect to be.”

Remus nodded. “Okay.” He placed his hand on Sirius’s head for a moment. “Okay.” He looked down at his cock. It was still, despite their recent conversational interlude, quite erect. “I don’t have to get off, either.”

“You can if you want.”

“I…” Remus hesitated. Selfish—it felt selfish. But then again, the whole thing had felt selfish. He had done it for Sirius, according to what Sirius had wanted and what was good for Sirius, but his own desires had seized control nonetheless, making the whole thing in some way for Remus.

But he wanted to get off. He really, really wanted to. And he wanted Sirius to watch him do it.

He took himself in hand. His eyes fluttered shut in relief as he began to stroke himself. But he opened them again soon, wanting to see.

Sirius watched. As Remus’ breath picked up, Sirius, still lying down, placed his hand on Remus’ thigh and stroked gently, rhythmically. Remus gasped sharply, the sensation mirroring his own hand on his prick, and he—he looked over past—past Sirius’ reddened arse, at the cane leaned up against the wall—and an image came of him buggering Sirius with it, as Sirius gasped and cried—

He came, neck arching back as he spurted almost violently over his trousers and shirt. A few flecks landed on Sirius’s hand and Remus choked in a breath, chest seizing up. The whole thing was nearly painful; Remus had wanted it so badly.

He opened his mouth to speak but the words got tangled up: _Sorry_ met _So good for me_ and he ended up saying, simply, “ _Sirius_.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: idk maybe I'll add to this fic when I feel like it  
> me: *immediately writes two more chapters*
> 
> just assume...irregular posting schedule but more is coming

Good days were delicate things for Remus those days. When he awoke in his bed at Grimmauld Place, Sirius sometimes still there and sometimes not, he found that, every once in awhile, he was happy. Sometimes all it took was the right slant of light through the window, falling onto the faded bedspread and illuminating the particles of dust that swam in the air. Remus tried to tend to this feeling as best he could. He would lie in bed, stretching out his arms and legs and enjoying the warmth of the blankets. He’d swim in half-sleep for as long as possible, carefully keeping the facts about his life and the world at the very edges of his consciousness. He would allow himself to envision his day up to the first cup of hot, strong coffee, and no further.

The day after the caning was like that. Remus woke up alone in bed, Sirius’ side mussed, blankets askew, rain tapping against the thick glass of the window, and he felt somehow younger. The memory of what they’d done the day before was hovering somewhere, but Remus kept it at bay and let his eyes flutter shut again, calling up images of rainy mornings past, mornings of eggs and toast and parchment and overheated castle rooms.

These weren’t memories of some specific adolescent moment but rather of past sensations: his body felt as it had felt then, warm, cozy, light and heavy both at once.

He lay there as long as he could, drifting, but his stomach growled and when Remus was hungry any good mood dissipated quickly, so he pushed back the covers and got out of bed.

Perhaps Sirius had already made coffee. Perhaps they might sit together and read in the library—or do some more cleaning, although that made Sirius depressed—Remus stopped himself. Coffee. Only coffee. Nothing beyond that needed to exist yet.

He put on soft trousers and a soft sweater and his softest socks and went quietly downstairs, anticipating what was to come. His hands would be too hot wrapped around the ceramic mug, and he would need to stop touching it until it had cooled somewhat, but he would want to touch it, because his fingers would be cold, so he would alternate; he would hold the cup as long as he could stand and then he would stop and then he would do it again. He would not burn his tongue on the coffee. He would be patient. He would let the rich, bitter smell soak into him, watch the steam rising, and he would stretch out the waiting as long as he could. Slow. Calm. The world beyond him and his coffee not yet present.

He smiled as he went into the kitchen, where the rain tapped louder against the windows.

“Fucking miserable weather,” Sirius said as Remus walked in. He was sitting at the table, hair messy, wearing the same rumpled T-shirt and boxers he had worn to bed every night that week, and he was staring out the window with his chin propped up on his hand.

Remus’ heart sank and then, as Sirius scowled sulkily at the rain that had been lifting Remus’ spirits, he felt a twist of resentment stab straight through him. _There goes my day,_ he thought, the web of good feeling blown away in an instant, and his brain said to Sirius, _Can’t you just…_

Then came the guilt, familiar as the resentment, because no, Sirius couldn’t. He couldn’t just be okay, he couldn’t just deal with it, for a million and one reasons and Remus knew them all and it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair to be angry with Sirius for having another bad day. It wasn’t fair to have secretly hoped that maybe Sirius—always cranky and slow in the mornings—would awaken ready to talk about what they’d done the day before, and whether they were going to do it again.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Sirius reported, with that single shoulder shrug, the one that said, _I didn’t expect anything else but I’m not resigning myself to this gracefully._ “Got maybe two hours total? Lay in bed thinking about how useless I am.” He said this last with a hard smile, as if it were a joke.

“You could have woken me up,” Remus said automatically. It was true, of course, and he was sorry Sirius’ hadn’t because he hated the idea of him lying there awake staring into the void of his own helplessness, but he was also secretly glad. He didn’t want to be exhausted today.

Sirius made a noise, like, _wouldn’t have done any good_ , and Remus tamped down the sharp little flare of hurt he felt in response. He could still sense the good day at the back of his mind, how it might have been. Coffee and quiet. But there was Sirius at the table, with unwashed hair, miserable, sucking the energy out of the room and Remus—god, Remus was such an arsehole.

“I’ll make coffee,” he said. “And some oatmeal.”

Sirius’ nose wrinkled briefly. “Don’t know if I can eat.”

Remus swallowed down his annoyance. “If you don’t, you’ll feel worse.”

Sirius shrugged again, one shoulder. “Yeah.”

Remus told himself: _this is not Sirius’ fault_. He took the coffee beans from the cupboard and poured them into the grinder. He knew that this was the best way to care for Sirius—to do the basic life tasks that he wouldn’t or couldn’t do for himself—so he tried to feel, with every rotation of the grinder’s handle, that he was doing something good, something useful.

He charmed the kettle to bring the water to a boil and got out two cups. He had brought both of them from the shitty flat he’d been staying in after his year of teaching at Hogwarts. One of them had the Gryffindor crest on it, and the other was a relic of his schooldays, a mint green mug with a picture of a chocolate frog on one side and the word HONEYDUKES on the other. He’d gotten it from a jumble shop when he was sixteen. It had been one of the few frivolous objects he’d allowed himself to buy as a teenager, and it had made him feel better on summer mornings when he sipped his tea and missed his friends. He kept it for himself today. It didn’t work on Sirius.

He made oatmeal and put less brown sugar in it than he preferred because Sirius liked it a little less sweet, and he dished it out and tried to ignore the resigned sort of gloom creeping through him. He had so wanted a good day.

Sirius glanced at the oatmeal but didn’t touch it. He took a couple sips of coffee, then went back to staring out the window at the rain.

Remus ate his breakfast in silence. If Sirius was going to be in a mood today, Remus needed to be well fed. He couldn’t stave off his anxiety—it was already churning in his belly—but he didn’t need to be snappy and irritable too.

“I know you don’t want to,” he said to Sirius, “but you know you’ll feel better if you eat.”

Sirius arched a skeptical eyebrow.

“Well. You’ll feel worse if you don’t.”

“I know,” Sirius said, but he made no move to pick up the spoon. Remus bit the inside of his lip and sipped his coffee. _If you won’t help yourself_ —he wanted to say, but it wasn’t fair, so he didn’t. He wanted, in fact, to pick up the spoon and force the oatmeal into Sirius’ mouth, but of course he didn’t do that either.

“I’m going to do some sorting in the library this morning,” he said instead. “If you want to join at any point.”

Sirius made a half-hearted noise of acknowledgment. After a moment, Remus left the room.

_Sirius spent twelve years imprisoned in Azkaban_ , Remus told himself, _and now he is stuck in his horrible childhood home. He can’t help Harry, he can’t go on missions for the Order, and this house is full of horrible memories for him. He’s depressed and he’s angry. Of course he is. How could he be anything else?_

It was almost a mantra for Remus at this point, and although he tried to use this explanation to make himself into the patient, calm lover he so wanted to be, the oft-repeated phrases were laced with both resentment and guilt. He loved Sirius, stupidly, desperately, and it hurt him so much to see Sirius this miserable. He loved him, and he could not fix him. He wanted to take care of him, but he didn’t know how. He wanted to give Sirius everything he needed, but he also wanted to give him space and autonomy, the things he had lacked for so very long. He was angry at Sirius for not doing the things that would help him, and he hated himself for that.

Remus did some sorting in the library, and Sirius didn’t join him. The rain still pattered on the windows, but the joy had gone from the sound. When Sirius was having a particularly bad day, Remus almost felt that he could sense him somewhere in the house, like some sort of magic or magnet that sucked in everyone else’s energy.

He went through a large stack of moldering books checking for anti-theft hexes or other assorted nasty charms, taking them one by one from the pile and carefully inspecting each spine and flyleaf. An edgy, unsettled feeling gnawed at him. He couldn’t settle into the work. He’d wanted—well, all right. _Admit it_. What he’d wanted wasn’t just a cup of coffee and rain against the windows. He'd wanted Sirius in bed next to him; he’d wanted to turn him on his belly, pull his shorts down, and see what time had made of the thin red welts on his arse.

He snapped the book he was holding shut and stood up. Maybe he would make tea. Maybe he needed to eat something again.

When he got to the kitchen, Sirius was still sitting at the table, staring out the window.

Remus glanced at the clock. An hour and twenty minutes had passed. The bowl of oatmeal was curdled and cold in front of him. Sirius’ eyes were sunken, rimmed below with tired smudges. Remus was hardly a model of rest and health but it had not been until seeing Sirius after Azkaban that he had really understood that “dark circles” could be a literal description. Remus could place his thumbs in the bags below Sirius’ eyes if he wanted to; he did want to, in fact, he itched to slide his fingers tenderly into place and just—just hold them there. He wanted to smooth his fingertips over Sirius’ face, run them along each tired line around his eyes, gently touch the tooth that had gotten crooked while Sirius was in prison and the two stubborn pimples that had recently appeared on Sirius’ oily forehead. Remus looked at him and ached, really ached, like the ache of a strained muscle, persistent and raw. It was as though Remus _had_ strained a muscle, really; the place inside him where he loved Sirius and grieved for him was tender with overuse. Sometimes Remus’ compassion felt so overworked that it seemed to give up, and it was difficult to make himself feel anything at all. At other times—now, in the kitchen, with the December rain against the glass—he hurt in ways he could neither describe nor escape.

He wanted to go to Sirius and hold him but he did not know if Sirius wanted to be held. He wanted to make Sirius a cup of tea but he did not want to pressure Sirius to drink it. He wanted to tell Sirius all the ways he was still important, still mattered, to him and to Harry and to the Order, but he knew Sirius would not want to hear it.

“Sirius,” he said abruptly, “let me see your bruises.”

He hadn’t meant to say it. Almost immediately he wanted to take the words back. If he wasn’t prepared to make Sirius drink a cup of tea, surely he shouldn’t be asking him to take down his trousers in the middle of the kitchen—

“All right,” Sirius said. He stood. His voice sounded a bit distant, but he blinked at Remus as he moved his hands to the waist of his boxers and turned around.

Remus’ breath caught. That had been so easy.

“Bend over the table so I can see,” he instructed Sirius, as his heartbeat gave a little jump and sped up. Sirius did. He pulled down his boxers, then placed his elbows on the table, right next to the cold bowl of oatmeal, and leaned over.

Remus stepped forward. His eyes were trained on four thin purple lines of broken blood vessels crossing Sirius’s arse. One was nearly faded, and the spot where he’d applied the balm, a place where three of the lines crossed, was nearly healed. But they were still there. Still visible.

He held out a hand, expecting his fingers to be trembling, but they were steady. He ran his fingers along the darkest of the lines.

“Do they hurt?” he asked softly.

“A twinge when I move,” said Sirius. “Or sit right on them. I felt them last night when I was trying to sleep.”

Remus’ heart clenched. “Did they make it harder to fall asleep?”

Sirius paused for a moment, still leaning on his elbows. “No. It helped when I concentrated on them, actually.”

That made something fizz hot in Remus’ chest. He was still staring at Sirius’ arse. He couldn’t look away. He pushed one finger into Sirius’ skin. Sirius hissed. Warmth bloomed between Remus’ legs.

He pulled his hand away. “Good,” he said. His voice sounded a little rough. “Good. You can…” He breathed. “You can pull up your pants now.”

Sirius did. He straightened and turned around, meeting Remus’ gaze. There was a little more color in his cheeks, and his eyes seemed more focused than before.

“What else?” Sirius asked quietly.

Remus looked at him, uncertain. But his heart was still pounding. “I…” He swallowed. “Would you…” He stopped. “Go sit in the library. I’ll be there in a minute.”

After a second, Sirius nodded. He left the room. Left the room—

_Obediently_ , supplied Remus’ brain, and he bit down hard on his lower lip and went to make tea.

He brought it in and handed Sirius one of the steaming cups. Sirius was sitting on the sofa, looking at the piles of books Remus had been sorting.

“What a load of junk,” Sirius said. “Should burn the lot.”

“Can’t burn books,” Remus replied automatically. He was still feeling strange. “Book burning is definitely off limits.”

Sirius sighed. “Would’ve made a great bonfire.”

He was probably right. Remus cast a glance at him; he was sipping his tea. He turned back to the books, knelt down beside them, and went back to work.

It was peaceful for a good long while. Sirius was quiet behind him, but the atmosphere felt companionable rather than sulky. After awhile the rain stopped and weak sun started to shine feebly into the room. Perhaps it was this evidence of better weather than made Sirius start to get restless. He left to use the loo and then came back again and stared moodily around the room. He picked up a book, paged through it, then discarded it; he did the same with two more. Remus passed him a stack of documents, hoping he would channel his energy into something useful, but after a moment he dropped them with a huff and finally slumped down into an armchair, picking at his fingernails.

_Oh,_ thought Remus grimly, _we’re doing_ this _mood now._

Sometimes Sirius’ house arrest made him listless and sometimes it made him restless. And as much as Remus hated to see him motionless on the sofa for hours at a time, the jittering and muttering and shifting and pacing and picking and fussing and sighing drove Remus _mad._ He knew, he absolutely knew, that Sirius felt caged—quite literally caged—and so he tried not to snap at Sirius for it. But, god, Sirius was so frustrating. Every time Sirius kicked his foot against the floor or clicked his teeth, Remus’ hackles rose. He tried to tune it out, but he could see Sirius fidgeting in the corner of his eye and each noise sent a tiny jolt through Remus’ eardrums and into his brain.

_Just deal with it,_ he told himself, the voice in his head sounding as if he were talking to himself through gritted teeth. _Just fucking ignore it._

Remus picked up _A Compendium of Forgotten Runes_ and inspected the flyleaf for any signs of anti-theft hexes. Sirius jiggled his foot against the floor. Remus took a deep breath. Nothing in the front of the book. Sirius let out a long sigh. Remus took another breath, even deeper this time. He turned to the back of the book. Sirius got up, walked across the room, and threw himself into another chair.

“You could run in the basement,” Remus said abruptly, just managing to stop from snapping the words at him. “On the treadmill.”

Arthur Weasley had, very kindly, presented them with the Muggle device a month ago. Remus had had a brief surge of hope that this would solve their problems—exercise, god, Sirius just stretching his legs, it would do him _so_ much good. But Sirius hadn’t liked it; the basement was too dark and running in place was too depressing, “like a rat in a cage,” and Remus knew what rat meant to both of them and so he didn’t say anything, but the fact of the treadmill just sitting there, when Sirius could have been using it instead of climbing up the walls when Remus was trying to work, send frustration pulsing through his body. _Why couldn’t Sirius just…_

“Mm,” Sirius replied, unenthused. He made, as Remus had expected, no move towards the basement.

Remus bit back further encouragement and turned back to the book.

Sirius tapped his feet rapidly on the floor.

Remus set aside _A Compendium of Forgotten Runes_ for later, when he could focus, and picked up another book.

_tap tap tap tap tap tap tap_

Remus’ brain screamed, _He could at least be doing that elsewhere!_

_tap tap tap tap tap tap tap_

He dug his nails into his palms and stared at the volume in front of him without reading the cover.

_tap tap tap tap_

He put the book down with vicious gentleness.

_tap tap tap tap_

“Fuck me, I’m _bored_ ,” Sirius said petulantly, and Remus snapped his head to look at Sirius and said:

“Then go take a shower and put on some clean clothes!”

Sirius stared at him. Anger coursed through Remus, pounding in his ears. The tapping stopped. Heat flooded Remus’ face.

“I—” _Oh my god._ “Sirius, I’m—”

Then Sirius stood up. “Okay,” he said, his voice strangely quiet.

He left the room. Remus stared after him. A moment later, he heard the water start to run.

“Hey,” Remus said when Sirius came back into the sitting room, hair damp and wearing fresh jeans and a clean black T-shirt. He was blinking and toweling his head. He looked a little dazed.

Guilt was churning in Remus’ stomach, but also—god, it was terrible, but also—Sirius had done it. He had showered. He was wearing clean clothes. Remus’ relief and satisfaction at this made the guilt warmer and thicker, a soupy sludge. He had shouted at Sirius. He was supposed to be the one who never shouted at Sirius.

“So…” he began, but Sirius walked over to where Remus was sitting in an armchair and sat on the floor. He sank down onto the carpet without a word and rested his head against Remus’ knees.

“Oh,” Remus said, surprised. Sirius pressed his head against his thigh. Remus hesitated for a second, then put his hand in Sirius’ hair. It was softer and cleaner than it had been in days.

Sirius sat like this for a minute, then shifted to his knees, burying his face in Remus’ legs, and said, voice muffled, “You still love me?”

“Oh, god,” Remus said, shocked. “Yes, of course.”

Sirius kept his face in Remus’ lap. “Really?”

“Yes. Sirius—yes. Will you look at me?”

Sirius shook his head.

“I…” Remus stroked his hand over Sirius’ hair, uncertain what to do. It was very hard, in this moment, not to be able to see Sirius’ face. “I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

“I didn’t mind,” Sirius said, voice muffled.

“Then why are you worried I don’t…?” Remus asked, feeling a little helpless, not sure what to do or say. “Is it—Sirius, are you afraid I won’t like you because you’re so unhappy?”

“I don’t like me when I’m unhappy,” Sirius said into Remus’ knees. “Why would you?”

Remus’ fingers clenched a little, tugging at Sirius’ hair. His throat seized up and he swallowed down what was choking him up “Sirius. I love you. It’s not—it’s not your fault.”

“Maybe it is.”

“You’re trapped here. Of course you’re miserable.”

“I don’t have to be so obnoxious about it.”

“You’re not…” Remus stopped. It _was_ difficult to be with Sirius when he was miserable. Sirius was—well, he _was_ obnoxious, quite frequently. Remus didn’t want to lie, but he didn’t want to say those things to Sirius, either. “It’s…I still love you, Sirius.”

Sirius turned his face sideways, looking at Remus through a curtain of hair. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“But I’m such a fucking _prick_.”

Remus laughed, startled. “Sirius, I hate to tell you this but…you’ve always been kind of a prick.”

Sirius’s one visible eye crinkled just a little. He huffed into Remus’ knees. “I suppose that’s true.”

“And I’ve always loved you.”

Sirius was quiet for a second. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

He nodded. After a second, he asked, “Can I stay here for awhile?”

“On your…like this? On the floor?”

He nodded again.

Remus’ heart was racing now. The strange dizziness from the day before came over him again as he looked down at Sirius. On his knees, for Remus. “I…yes. Sure, if you want to.”

“Pet my hair?”

“Oh,” said Remus. He swallowed. “Sure.” He ran his fingers through Sirius’ hair, scraping his nails gently along his scalp. Sirius let out a sigh of relief. Remus did it again, and again. He kept up the rhythm of it for a long time, and then rested his hand on Sirius’ warm head as Sirius knelt at his feet.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please note the added tags--some mild ageplay and daddy kink in this chapter.

Sirius had a couple of okay days, and then a couple of bad ones. He let Remus wheedle him into helping set up a Christmas tree and string some fairy lights around the main staircase’s banister. He slept well one night, and badly the next. Soon his hair grew greasy again.

On a gloomy afternoon in mid-December, he was lying facedown on the sofa while Remus read in an armchair. After a long silence and a few minor shifts and fidgets, Sirius’ voice said, “I want to wash it.”

A pause. Remus frowned over the top of his book. “Wash what?”

Sirius huffed into the couch cushion. “My hair,” he said.

Remus blinked. “Okay.”

There was another pause. Sirius said nothing. He lay perfectly still again.

“Are you…going to?”

Another small huff, but Sirius didn’t answer or move.

Remus put down his book. “Sirius, er…do you…what exactly…?”

“I can’t,” Sirius muttered.

“Can’t wash your hair?”

A silence that Remus took as assent.

“I…”

He surveyed Sirius. His lover was stretched out prone, socked feet shoved over the edge of one armrest, upon which his shins were (quite uncomfortably, Remus imagined) resting. His arms lay flat at his sides. He was still facedown. Remus had the idea that speaking had become a monumental effort for Sirius in this moment.

“I think you should wash your hair,” Remus said cautiously. “I think you’d feel a little better.”

Nothing. Sirius didn’t even twitch in response.

“I…” He fell silent. Did Sirius want encouragement, or did he want Remus to absolve him of the task? Would it be better to tell Sirius he didn’t have to do anything he didn’t want to, that it was okay if he lay on the couch all day? It was okay, in an objective sort of way, but it also wasn’t making Sirius feel very good.

“Just a shower,” Remus said. “It’ll be quick, and then you’ll be clean.”

Sirius pushed his head deeper into the sofa, then muttered, “I _can’t._ ”

Remus almost told him that was all right, that he didn’t have to, but—but.

“Sirius,” he said slowly, “I’m going to give you a shower.”

Sirius shifted at that, just a small movement of hands and head. He didn’t answer.

“I’m going to take you into the bathroom and hose you down.”

A pause. “Yeah?” Sirius asked, barely audible.

“Yes,” said Remus. “Yes. And I’ll wash your hair.”

A silence. Then Sirius said, very quietly, “Okay.”

Remus raised Sirius gently from the couch. Sirius let him do it. With one hand low on Sirius’ back and the other on his shoulder, Remus guided him out of the sitting room and towards the big tile bathroom down the hall. Sirius didn’t meet his eye as they walked, but he leaned into Remus, bony hip flush against Remus’. Remus could smell the old sweat under his arms. There was a sort of musty scent about him a lot of the time these days, like air that didn’t circulate enough. Remus sometimes held his breath unconsciously when he walked into a room with Sirius in it and then, when he realized he was doing it, always hoped Sirius hadn’t noticed. He was going to wash that smell off him now, going to scrub not only his hair but every inch of his body.

He was a little bit dizzy again.

Sirius stood in front of the tub as Remus turned on the water—it took a long time for the old heating charms to kick in—and Remus stripped down efficiently. By the time he was naked, Sirius had managed only to unbutton his trousers.

“Stop,” said Remus. “Let me.”

Sirius dropped his arms. He still didn’t look straight at Remus, but he let him tug his shirt over his head and push his pants and trousers down, then steadied himself with a hand on Remus’ shoulder as Remus pulled them off his feet, catching his socks as they went. Sirius turned to the shower, but without thinking, Remus stopped him and put out a hand to test the water.

“Go ahead, it’s warm enough,” he said, and Sirius flashed him a look he couldn’t quite gauge. His belly flipped. Despite himself, his cock was stiffening.

He stepped into the stream of water after Sirius and pulled the curtain shut behind them. It was heavy and dark and blocked most of the light, but some of the sun from the bathroom’s one window filtered in through the fabric. Sirius was lit so gently in its glow that his angular elbows and knees seemed softened, all his sharp edges bathed in shadow and blurred by the rivulets of water pouring down his pale skin. He just stood there under the showerhead, not moving, eyes blinking as water dripped down his forehead. He looked so tired.

Remus squeezed his shoulder and edged past him. He stood behind Sirius in the clawfoot tub, looking at his tangled hair and his shoulder blades and the hollow of his lower back and his heart clenched. He slid his arms around Sirius, bowing his head against the stream of water, and held Sirius for a long moment. Sirius felt strange and far away but he did move, just a little, to rest his head slightly against Remus’. Remus slid his hand up Sirius’ chest, feeling the water wash it clean, and said, “Let me take care of you.”

Remus could feel Sirius swallow. He opened his mouth as if to reply, but closed it again. Remus said, with a rush of desire he couldn’t quite hide, “I want to.”

After a second Sirius jerked his head in a _yes._ Remus picked up the soap. All at once he flashed back to picking up the thin wooden cane: the swoop of terror, and the rush of arousal. His breath caught. He held the bar of soap loosely in his hand and looked at Sirius’ bare, vulnerable back, his arse—healed now and once more unblemished—his legs, his neck, his head; why did he feel the same way he’d felt when he was about to hit Sirius?

The soap was a plain white bar, something from the Muggle drugstore. The thought flashed through Remus’ head that he wished he had something a little nicer. But it lathered well between his wet palms and he stretched out his hand, feeling absurdly as though he should warn Sirius before making contact. _Five scrubs, and then we’ll check in._

He rubbed the soap over Sirius’ back, over his shoulders, along his arms. He put the bar back down and put his hands on Sirius’ skin. Slick and soapy, they glided over Sirius, washing away the grime that had accumulated over several days and the subtler, more pervasive smell of stasis. Remus worked methodically—holding in his pounding pulse, his growing desire to crush Sirius’s body in a rough embrace—rubbing in circles on the back of Sirius’ neck and down his spine. Sirius let him, standing there silently under the spray. Remus wasn’t sure how Sirius was feeling as he soaped up his legs and the backs of his knees but for the moment that seemed less important than the task of getting him clean. He moved around to Sirius’ front, nudging him backwards so Remus had room to crouch and run the soap over his feet. Sirius did make a move at that, and a little noise that sounded like protest.

“My feet are—” he began, “you don’t have to…”

“Hush,” said Remus, and Sirius fell silent. Remus, water dripping from the ends of his hair and into his eyes, inspected Sirius’ feet. They were dirty and his nails were yellowed and warped. They needed to be cleaned. Really, they needed more than Remus could do in the shower; they needed to soak in a bucket of warm water and Remus needed a brush and a scouring charm to get between his toes, and clippers to trim his nails. The image of Sirius sitting docilely before Remus, letting him trim and scrub and poke at his skin, sent sparks up Remus’ spine. But for now he would just do as much as he could. He instructed Sirius to lean on the wall and, as water poured down Remus’ back, he gently took each of Sirius’ toes in his fingers and rubbed between them, removing bits of fuzz and the smell that still clung there.

When he stood, Sirius was looking at him with a shellshocked sort of haze in his eyes. Droplets of water clung to his eyelashes; his hair was soaked through but still unkempt, and he swayed a little, as if he were having trouble standing.

Warmth bubbled up in Remus’ belly, hot and strange. Sirius swallowed again—Remus could see his Adam’s apple bob—and Remus reached out and very gently touched his cheek. Sirius’ eyes fluttered closed. Then he opened them again, and there was something overwhelming in them that Remus couldn’t place as fear or need or relief or anything that really had a name, but Remus couldn’t name his own overwhelming feelings either, so he took up Sirius’ hand in his and squeezed it.

“Can I keep going?” he asked softly.

Sirius opened his mouth but it took a moment for sound to emerge. “Do you really want to?” he asked hoarsely.

Remus nodded. After a second, Sirius nodded back.

It was more intense now. Perhaps that was partly because Remus was facing Sirius as he slid the soap over his chest and down his arms. He spent some time on Sirius’ hands, more than he needed to, washing each finger and massaging it gently as hot water poured down on them both. Then he soaped up his own hands and, with only the slightest hesitation but certainly a bit of warmth in his cheeks, he slid them down between Sirius’ legs and wiped down his prick and his balls. His cock hardened further while he was doing it, with a strange sort of syrupy arousal that felt heady and illicit. There was something so oddly intimate about washing Sirius’ cock, something very different from stroking it or having it in his mouth. Intimate did not quite cover it, in fact; it made Remus feel almost as though he were doing something he shouldn’t, not because it was wrong exactly, but because Sirius must have felt—well—surely Sirius felt small in the same way Remus found himself feeling big, feeling like—like he was taking care of a child, almost, though of course he wasn’t, but Sirius must have felt—and then Sirius let out a small sigh and his muscles relaxed (Remus had not known they were tensed) and Remus felt a wave of—of—accomplishment, maybe?

He smoothed back his wet hair, shaking the drops from his eyes, and with a furtive excited feeling he thought he had better clean Sirius’ arsehole, too. So he soaped up his hands again and, quite steadily, reached under Sirius’ prick, in between his legs, and spread soapy lather up and down Sirius’ crack.

Sirius gasped at that, a sharp intake of breath not quite muffled by the sound of the water, and Remus kept his pace deliberately steady and rubbed at Sirius’ arsehole till it was soap-dry and clean. He even pushed his finger just a little bit inside, wiping away anything that might be clinging there.

And Sirius let him. Sirius held his shoulder and tipped his head back and let the water stream down his mouth and chin. Then when Remus stood and felt that he had to kiss Sirius, had to, hard on the mouth, Sirius let him, receiving the kiss with a small noise, and Remus, feeling dizzy with competence, told him it was time to wash his hair.

He took a long, long time with it. Tangles had formed and Sirius had neglected to comb them out, so Remus gently extricated the knotted strands from each other, pulling his hands back to find his fingers webbed with stray hairs that he wiped onto the tile wall. The cheap shampoo smelled vaguely of coconut—again, Remus wished for something more luxurious—and he scrubbed and scrubbed until the foamy lather dripped down Sirius’ back. He scraped his fingernails along Sirius’ scalp and again he felt Sirius’ muscles unclench. Sirius’ hair, free of the oil and the sweat, was thick and soft. It might have been the softest Remus had ever felt it, in fact, warm with water and slick from the shampoo.

There was a cluster of suds at the corner of Sirius’ eye. Remus wiped it away quickly so it wouldn’t sting. A wash of protectiveness slammed through him, _what he wouldn’t do for this man_ , and Remus was breathless with it, with his need to care for Sirius: he wanted to wrap him up in a great big fluffy towel and put him under the covers and keep him warm and dry and safe. He wanted it _so badly._

Sirius—Sirius looked like he might let him do it, too.

“Time to get out,” Remus murmured, and he knew what he sounded like and it made his heart twist and jump. He was so steady, though, as he turned off the tap and reached beyond the curtain for Sirius’ towel and began to dry him before he could get cold. Once Sirius was dry he ran the towel over himself. Then he stepped out of the shower and put out his hand.

Sirius took it. Sirius stepped over the edge of the clawfoot tub and managed a strained “thank you” before he made a strangled sort of gulping noise and then sat down hard on the floor.

“Sirius,” Remus said, alarmed, dropping to a crouch next to him, “what—”

Sirius shook his head. A couple of tears oozed out of his eyes, slowly, and he shook his head again, looking helpless.

“I don’t—know—” he managed, and then wrapped his trembling hands around his bare knees. Remus bit his lip. He didn’t know what was happening. He only knew that Sirius wasn’t able to cope with whatever it was.

“Let’s get you to bed,” he said. After the barest resistance Sirius let him stand him back on his feet. He led him naked into the bedroom down the hall, holding him around the waist and no longer pretending to either of them that he wasn’t adopting the soothing manner of a nurse or parent. He stopped them in the doorway of their bedroom, but the sheets weren’t clean and he knew Sirius’s side, especially, smelled of sweat. So he went down the hall and opened the next door he saw, remembering just too late to stop that it was Sirius’s childhood bedroom.

He started to turn away, but Sirius stepped into the room, and Remus watched as he climbed docilely into the twin bed, sliding beneath the faded red and gold comforter, and blinked at him with wide dark eyes.

“Stay with me till I fall asleep,” Sirius murmured. Tears had not entirely stopped leaking from his eyes. He looked exhausted, and very small.

Remus sat on the bed. He stroked Sirius’ shoulder and arm under the blanket, watching his eyelids flutter, feeling somehow both utterly calm and utterly afraid.

He watched Sirius fall asleep, then stripped the sheets from their bed and replaced them. He climbed under the covers, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, certain he would be awake for hours. But exhaustion overtook him all at once, and he slept.

He was awoken sometime in the middle of the night by the sound of the bedroom door opening.

“Sirius?” he murmured, rolling onto his side, still half-asleep.

He could see Sirius silhouetted in the doorway, naked, hands clenched at his sides.

“I,” said Sirius. He cleared his throat. “I…had a bad dream.”

Blinking himself awake, Remus sat up on his elbow. “Oh,” he said, as the memory came back to him more fully: the shower, and putting Sirius to bed. “Come here.”

Sirius came. He padded on bare feet and Remus shifted back and lifted the blanket for him.

“Can I…?” Sirius asked. He sounded hesitant. Remus couldn’t really see his face in the dark.

“Of course,” he said, and Sirius climbed in. Remus covered them both with the blanket and Sirius scooted in closer. Remus wrapped his arm around Sirius’ back. Sirius was shaking.

“Oh,” said Remus, startled. “Oh, Sirius. What…”

Sirius dug his fingers into Remus’ t-shirt, clenching the hem. “Bad dream,” he muttered.

Remus ran a hand gently down Sirius’ back, something rearing slowly up inside him. “Will you,” he asked, “tell me what it was about?”

Sirius’ fingers spasmed, tugging Remus’ shirt. His head was facing Remus but it was bent over, so all Remus could see was his freshly-washed hair.

“I can’t,” said Sirius in a low voice. “Too…”

Remus swallowed, hard. “Too scary?”

“Yes.” After a long moment, Sirius said, “But you…I had to make sure you were still…”

Remus’ heart clenched. “I’m here,” he said, running his hand up and down Sirius’ back. “I’m here.”

“And…” A pause. “And it’s okay if I sleep with you?”

_This is our bed_ , Remus almost said, but the thing that had been rising up in him clamped down on the words. Remus’ blood was pounding in his ears. “Of course, sweetheart.”

Sirius’ breathing was still quick, frightened.

“Do you…” He hesitated. “Do you want me to talk to you? Tell you a story, maybe?”

Sirius’ breath hitched. “Like…” He swallowed hard. “Like a…bedtime story?”

The blanket that covered them was cavelike, the pocket that held them inside growing warmer by the second. “Sure,” said Remus. And then, because it was so silent and so calm and so dark, he ventured, “Did your parents ever…?”

“No.”

Remus went quiet, but his hands pressed tighter around Sirius’ back. “They should have,” he said. “They should have taken care of you.” He kissed Sirius’ head. “Like I’m going to.”

With a tiny whimper, Sirius shifted his body even closer, forehead still bent against Remus’ chest. Remus felt Sirius’ legs brush against his, and then—

“Sirius. You…”

Sirius was hard. His cock was resting against Remus’ belly, a light touch, but warm.

The knowledge that it had been weeks, at least, since this had happened stopped Remus’ whirring brain for a moment. What should he—what if he—if he did something Sirius didn’t want, if he touched Sirius and his arousal faded, what if that happened and Sirius took it as a sign that he was never going to want sex again—

And that thing, that big looming thing inside Remus, snuffed out those worries like a light.

“You want me to make you feel good?” he asked softly.

Sirius’ fingers clenched again. He was still trembling from his nightmare.

“Come on, sweetheart. We’re gonna make you feel better, okay?”

Sirius nodded into Remus’ chest. Perhaps the trembling wasn’t only from the nightmare anymore.

“Please,” he said, and then, as Remus slid his hand down between them, Sirius whispered, “Please, Daddy.”

Remus was swamped, suddenly, by a flood of some lung-clenching, breath-stopping _something_ , a _bigness_ , a—a towering—giant—something, something that shot heat straight into his cock but also into the arches of his feet and the pit of his stomach and his cheeks and his ears, something like an injection into his spine of—of electricity, or—or energy, or—

_Power_ , his mind supplied, and there it was, the cane, the soap, _Daddy._

“Daddy’s going to make you feel so good.” He clasped Sirius’ cock in his hand. Sirius whimpered like he was surprised—maybe he was. Remus squeezed gently, not moving his hand up and down yet, and whispered, “You had a bad dream, honey, but Daddy’s here and he’s going to take care of you.”

Sirius gasped at _honey_.

“Just lie there,” Remus said soothingly. “It’ll be okay. Daddy’ll make you feel good, I promise.”

Gently, he began to stroke Sirius’ cock. It felt— _fuck oh fuck_ it felt small. Small enough to crush between his fingers, if Remus had wanted to. He kept his touch light. His head was pounding with the awareness of what he could do to this man, if he let himself. Sirius was inhaling little hitching breaths, one hand clutching the blanket, the other Remus’ waist.

“My sweet tender boy,” Remus breathed; the words felt so good to say aloud, after so long holding them in in case they irritated Sirius, so he said more. “My precious, precious boy. It’s so hard for you. So hard. I know. Daddy knows. He sees how hard you try, baby.” Sirius whined, feet kicking slightly against the mattress, but Remus kept up a slow, steady pace. “Daddy’s so proud of you, honey. Daddy’s going to make you feel so good.”

He tightened his grip slightly on Sirius’ cock. Sirius was breathing hard, definitely trembling from more than fear now. Remus jerked him off as gently as if Sirius had never had it done to him before.

“Daddy’s going to take care of you,” Remus whispered, leaning his mouth close enough to brush against Sirius’ ear. “I’m going to take care of you. You’re going to do what I say, my love. I’m going to spoon-feed you if you won’t eat your breakfast, and change your dirty socks for you, and wipe your arse when you need it—”

“I need it,” Sirius wailed, face pushed against Remus’ chest, dampening his shirt with tears. “Daddy, I need it, I—I can’t—please, I—”

Triumph swelled in Remus. “Hush, now, baby,” he murmured. He gripped Sirius’ cock, tugging and twisting. “You’ll do whatever Daddy says?”

“Yes,” Sirius whispered.

“Whatever Daddy wants?”

“Yes!” His hips bucked.

“Daddy says come,” Remus said, the words crisp and unyielding and Sirius sobbed into his chest.

“I—I—”

“Come, Sirius.”

Liquid spilled hot over Remus’ clenched fist. Sirius choked his way through his orgasm, wild inarticulate noises breaking free from his throat as he flailed against the mattress.

“There,” said Remus. “There, there.” He soothed Sirius’ hot brow with his clean hand. “All better, baby.”

Sirius sniffed, a loud wet noise of clogged mucous and tears. Remus reached over to the side table and pulled two tissues from the box. He slid one under the blankets, cleaning up Sirius’ spunk as best he could. Then he held the other to Sirius’ nose.

“Blow,” he said.

For a moment, Sirius only stared at him.

“Blow your nose, Sirius.”

Sirius did. Remus caught the snot in the tissue, wiped at Sirius’ upper lip, and then dropped both tissues onto the floor. Sirius scooted in to let Remus take him in his arms. Remus felt as though he could crush a brick with his bare hands. He held Sirius tenderly, until he fell asleep once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/ebp-brain) if you want to say hi. (:


	4. Chapter 4

Remus decided that the weekend would be entirely given over to Christmas biscuit baking. Sirius had seemed relatively calm and present for the last couple days, but Remus could sense his restlessness creeping back in. He thought that if he gave Sirius a bunch of mundane but absorbing tasks to do with his hands, he might stave off that particular mood for a little while longer.

In the past—really, in the very recent past—Remus would have floated the possibility to Sirius as a question: _I’m going to bake cookies; do you want to help?_ A chance for Sirius to say yes or no; an opportunity for him to exercise his autonomy, at least over this one small thing, since he had so little choice about anything else. But Remus was beginning to understand—thought, at least, that he was beginning to understand—something about the way Sirius’ mind worked right now.

He was certainly beginning to understand something about his own.

“Sirius,” he said, his red-and-white-checked apron (a gift from Molly Weasley) already tied around his waist as he opened the door to their still-dark bedroom, Sirius blinking blearily at him from under the covers, “I want you in the kitchen in twenty minutes. We have a lot of baking to do today.”

Sirius stared at him, the blanket pulled up to his nose.

“It’s ten in the morning. Time to get up.”

“But…” Sirius’ voice held a bit of a whine, and Remus said briskly, “No buts. I’ll see you downstairs at 10:20.”

He shut the door. One-third of his brain was setting off alarm bells as if he had done something catastrophic; the other two-thirds was doing something else entirely. It was going quite…calm wasn’t exactly the world, was it? It was a little like a boat that had been rocking on the waves suddenly catching a current and cutting cleanly through the water. Also there was something smug about the way his mind drew an underscore below what Remus had just done: _Good, that’s finished, time to preheat the oven._

Shortbread, Florentines, gingersnaps, stained-glass sugar cookies, and gingerbread men. That ought to be enough to distribute amongst their friends—Molly and Arthur, Bill, Tonks, Minerva, Kingsley; maybe he’d even send some to Dumbledore, since the man had a notorious sweet tooth and Remus was only furious with him about half the time—well, maybe he’d better add almond biscotti as well.

Remus felt flush with purpose and holiday cheer by the time Sirius arrived in the kitchen exactly twenty minutes later, dressed in fresh slacks and one of Remus’ old sweaters, blinking bemusedly at the bags, bottles, and canisters of flour, sugar, nuts, and spices that were arranged in tidy rows on the ugly granite counters. Remus picked up an admittedly rather frilly and moth-eaten apron he’d found crumpled in a bottom drawer and looped it over Sirius’ neck, tying it efficiently at the waist. “Chop,” he said, handing Sirius a cupful of blanched almonds.

Looking both sleepy and as if he though Remus had gone a bit off the rails, Sirius sat obediently at the kitchen table and spread the nuts out on a cutting board that Remus had set up for him. There was a whistle—kettle boiling. Remus poured out the water into waiting mugs, then stirred some milk and a little sugar into the cups of strong tea. He placed one in front of Sirius, who drank gratefully.

“Clearly I will need this today,” Sirius muttered. “Er, Remus…”

“Yes, my dearest love?” Remus asked innocently.

Sirius stared at him for a moment, and then a grin cracked across his face. “You’ve gone mental.”

Remus shrugged. “Maybe. I guess you’ll have to follow the whims of a mad dictator today. At least there’ll be biscuits at the end.”

“Gingersnaps?”

He almost laughed at the note of genuine eagerness in Sirius’ voice, and then it slammed into him with the force of an unexpected shove: Sirius, wanting something, wanting something and asking for it, just like—like years and years and years ago, _kiss me, Remus, come on, it’s cold, let me put my hand in your pocket, Remus, come on, just one quick run to the kitchens, we won’t get caught, I saw Bitsy earlier when she was tidying the common room and she said there are fresh gingersnaps and she’d put a few aside—_ that memory, a line pulled tight between _now_ and _then_ , and he thought Sirius felt its tug a little too because he looked almost worried, as he waited for Remus to reply, that the answer would be no; but Remus rushed to fill the gap by holding up the packet of minced ginger he’d ordered specially from Hogsmeade and saying, “It wouldn’t be Christmas without them.”

Sirius’s eyes softened a bit and he darted out his hand to take Remus’, then bent his head quickly to kiss it, lightly, almost deferentially. In a heartbeat he was back with the knife in his grip, attention on the almonds, but Remus could tell they both felt the constriction of the space between them. Remus felt it burning at the back of his throat and behind his eyes.

The timer chirped out, “Oven ready!” and Remus hurried to finish mixing the sugar cookie dough.

He set Sirius to measuring out flour and dried fruits and sorting out the colorful little hard candies they’d melt and pour into the holes he was making at the center of each sugar cookie, where they’d become little pink and green and yellow stained-glass windows. The kitchen filled with the smells of vanilla and cinnamon and molasses, a rich warm aroma that Remus breathed in so deeply he could feel his toes and fingers tingling with it.

He looked over at Sirius, still working away at his tasks. “Sirius,” he said, laughing, “I don’t know how you’re working like that.”

Sirius was bent over a bowl of dough, stirring assiduously. “Like what?”

“With your hair all over the place. You’ll get it in the biscuits! Let me.” He stepped behind Sirius and, wiping his hands on his apron, began gathering all the loose strands that had fallen forward, some of them dusty with flour, and gently combed them back with his fingers. Sirius tensed for the briefest of moments and then relaxed into Remus’ touch. Feeling as though he held something extraordinarily precious in his hands, Remus carefully loosened a few tangles and then gathered all of Sirius’ hair at the nape of his neck. He glanced around the kitchen and spotted a discarded red ribbon from the packet of candied ginger. He tied it around Sirius’ hair, tightening it as best he could into a knot and a bow that would hold at least for a little while.

“Yes?” he murmured, still standing behind Sirius, bent over him with one hand brushing his shoulder.

“Yes,” said Sirius quietly. “That should help.”

At the end of the day they had several hundred biscuits stacked precariously on various kitchen surfaces and Remus was sorting them into tins—some to give away, some to keep—while Sirius swept sugar and flour and the occasional stray almond off the floor. He shooed Remus from place to place in order to hit every spot, batting at his heels with the broom when he didn’t move quickly enough. He even crouched down with a damp rag and wiped up crumbs from the nooks and crannies made by the table legs and the awkward gap between the stove and the counter. When he finished, his cheeks were pink with exertion and half his hair was slipping loose from its bow. Remus’ heart gave a little twist in his chest at the sight.

“Sirius,” he said quietly, “would you go build a fire in the sitting room?”

Sirius nodded. “Are you…”

“I’ll be there soon.” He smiled, though his pulse had begun to beat louder in his ears. “I’m just going to get us some tea.”

“And biscuits?”

“And biscuits.”

Sirius went. Remus stood still for a moment, looking after him. _Yes_ , he thought. _Yes, I think so._

He charmed a plate of biscuits to follow behind him and he held a steaming mug in each hand as he made his way to Sirius. He could hear the fire crackling and fizzling from the corridor. Sirius had stacked up a small pile of extra kindling beside the fire screen—an embroidered floral piece that was actually rather pretty—and he’d sat himself on the sofa, not quite relaxed. He looked up at Remus, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

“Yeah,” Remus said. He was quiet; Sirius was so beautiful. His loose, longish hair; his dark eyes. “Yeah, let’s…” He took a breath. “Your head on my lap?”

Sirius nodded.

Remus arranged himself and the tea and the biscuits. Sirius took a sip of his tea, then placed it on the coffee table and, without quite meeting Remus’ eyes, moved so he lay on his side, feet tucked up against the armrest, cheek against Remus’ thighs.

Gently, Remus put a hand on Sirius’ face and guided it so he was looking up at Remus.

Remus could see him swallow nervously. There were tiny lines of tension around his eyes.

“Hush,” he said, and with the word felt himself slip into something, slip down, a little bit, into somewhere quiet and close. “Rest, love. You did so much today.”

He smoothed a hand over Sirius’ forehead. Sirius let out a small shuddering breath and Remus felt him unclench.

“Now we get to eat some biscuits,” Remus said. “Best part, hm?”

Sirius blinked at him, then said, a little hoarsely, “I liked making them too.”

He smiled. “So did I.” He picked up a gingersnap from the platter. He could tell that it was crunchy all the way through, just as Sirius preferred, though Remus liked his a little softer. It was studded with crystallized ginger and the dusting of sugar on top made it glisten in the firelight. Beautiful. When he was in the kitchen, he’d lingered a little longer than necessary making sure he chose the most perfect of the biscuits to bring to Sirius. It was a small and sentimental gesture, certainly, but it had felt to Remus like a peculiarly solemn moment. He had felt…prepared. And capable.

He brought the gingersnap to Sirius’ lips. “Open up,” he said softly.

A startled flash in Sirius’ eyes—but only for a moment. It faded immediately and was replaced by a sort of softening: a smoothing out of the lines around his eyes, a sleepy blink.

Sirius bit down on the biscuit. Crumbs scattered as he broke off the first bite. Remus brushed them away and smoothed down Sirius’ hair as he watched Sirius chew and swallow.

“Did they turn out all right?” he asked.

“Yes,” Sirius whispered.

Remus fed him another bite. He chewed slowly; he looked to Remus as if he was really tasting the biscuit, really tasting the sharp ginger bite and the sweet crust of sugar.

He touched Sirius’ throat lightly as Sirius swallowed.

“Hold your hand there?” Sirius whispered when Remus began to move his fingers away.

“You mean—” Remus started to ask, then, instead, fitted his hand gently around Sirius’ throat. “Like this?”

“Yes.” Sirius’ response was barely audible. His big eyes had gotten, impossibly, bigger.

Remus fed him another bite and felt Sirius’ throat contract as he swallowed. Sirius’ skin stretched beneath Remus’ hand. Remus could feel all the bones of his throat, the muscles, the things that protected and supported the fragile, vital windpipe, the place where breath and sustenance entered Sirius’ body. His grip was light, but he was having a hard time accepting that. Although he knew he was not pressing down, merely holding his hand in place, his grasp felt so strong, so heavy. So implacable, so…immovable, so…

Sirius opened his mouth again, like a baby bird. Remus fed him another bite.

He could flex his fingers, he thought. Tighten his grip. He could squeeze, and Sirius’ breath would stop.

He thought that one of these days, sometime soon, he was going to do that for Sirius. In their bed, with Sirius naked. He had a suspicion, so strong it was nearly knowledge, that Sirius would feel Remus’ constricting grasp as an anchor and a relief.

Now, though, he fed Sirius biscuits and watched Sirius’ gaze relax bit by bit as he sank deeper and deeper into himself. His eyes were shining with terrifying, heartstopping trust. “I love you,” Remus whispered.

_I love you_ , Sirius mouthed back, so far under he could barely make a sound.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for all the comments, folks. I know I'm slowing down a bit on posting but I'm still writing; I have no plans to leave this fic hanging. <3

In bed with Sirius, early in the morning. Remus was still half-asleep, emerging languidly from a barely remembered dream. Light from the window was shining onto Sirius’ face. Sirius blinked at him, smiling sleepily.

Remus woke up a little more and smiled back. He reached out and brushed his fingers over Sirius’ hair. “Morning,” he murmured.

“Morning,” Sirius replied, though the word was slurred with sleep.

Remus trailed his fingers down Sirius’ cheek, feeling the pebbly stubble there, then down his throat, hooking his hand into the collar of Sirius’ faded t-shirt and rubbing his knuckles against Sirius’ chest. Warmth pooled between his legs, flushed his face. He ran his hand down over Sirius’ shirt and gently rubbed at one of his nipples.

Sirius jerked back.

Remus lurched away, every fuzzy remnant of sleepiness banished at once as his stomach fell with a sick jolt. Hurt blistered up his bones. The shame of rejection made his fingers curl, his spine arch in on itself.

It took less than a second before they both managed to stop their bodies’ trajectories away from each other. Remus banished the pain from his face; Sirius blinked himself further awake.

“Sorry, I just—"

“No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…” Remus took a breath. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay, I just—I don’t feel—”

“No, I know. It’s all right.”

Sirius muttered, “No it isn’t.”

Remus almost put out a hand to stroke his hair reassuringly, but he stopped himself with another tiny jerk back. “It’s…” He said, carefully, “It’s not your fault.”

Sirius shrugged his shoulders, picking at a hangnail and not looking at Remus.

“Do you want to…do you want to go have some coffee? We can sit on the sofa, I could make a fire…”

“I think I want to sleep more.”

“Oh,” said Remus. “Okay. Yeah.”

Sirius pulled the blanket up higher and turned onto his other side. Remus stared at his back and a wave of memory came up and slammed into him: lying curled around Sirius, the air outside the blankets far too cold to even contemplate leaving the bed, his hand sliding over Sirius’ hip and down between his legs, feeling his cock grow hotter and harder as Remus squeezed it and Sirius groaned. It wasn’t a memory of one day; it was a memory of many days.

Remus found himself sitting upright and shoving his feet into his slippers before he realized he was moving. Urging away the burning in his eyes and throat, he collected some crumpled trousers and a sweater and brought them out into the corridor, closing the door behind him with a small _click_.

He put his clothes on in a guest bathroom, staring at himself in the big heavy mirror. Even considering that the full moon was coming up soon, he looked unusually wan and pale. He raised a hand to his face and, very gently, brushed his fingers over the fine lines that had recently begun appearing at the corners of his mouth. Then he ran them over his lips, catching a patch of dry skin, and then cupped his cheek in his hand, cradling it tenderly for a long moment.

It was too much. He knew he had to get something to eat for breakfast because if he didn’t he’d really be a mess, so he hurried to the kitchen and cut a couple slices from a loaf of bread; but then he shot back up the stairs, down the hall, and up and up again till he’d mounted the unfolding stepladder leading into the attic and pulled it shut behind him.

He sat down roughly against one of the big dusty trunks that cluttered up the still-neglected space and ate his slices of untoasted bread while dashing a couple of tears from his eyes. The attic was very cold. The eaves were drafty, and the few grimy windows were single-paned, unlike the thick mullioned ones throughout the rest of the house. He could feel the winter chill seeping in through every crack.

He cast his gaze around for a suitable container for some charmed flames and found a big cut-crystal vase, its ridges thick with dust. He conjured the flames and then stuck his hands under his knees, trying to warm them up.

If he had not understood that Sirius was very depressed he would have thought Sirius had fallen out of love with him. In a way, he thought, some part of his body did believe this; that part of him sent out signals of embarrassment and reproof whenever he tried to touch Sirius and Sirius pulled away: _stop humiliating yourself. He doesn’t want you._ When those words, or others like them, actually rose to the surface of his consciousness, he patiently and diligently rebutted them. But the thought lived in his body somewhere he couldn’t quite reach, in that curl of shame that twisted through him whenever he was confronted with his unreciprocated desire.

Of course it did. He had spent the years between ages twelve and sixteen believing fully that no one would ever want him (gay, and a werewolf, and ugly besides); spent those years believing that _Sirius_ , specifically, would not want him—that it was embarrassing and presumptuous and delusional to even entertain the notion, to even imagine, in the private confines of his four-poster in the middle of the night, Sirius’ hand in his own. So much so that every few months Remus would spend a week or two having convinced himself that he did not, in fact, have feelings for Sirius, that his burgeoning libido had simply attached itself to the nearest attractive male. Because it was creepy to think about your best friend like that, he told himself. And it was pathetic to have a crush on the same person everybody else did—all those Hufflepuff girls, giggling in the corridors. And if Sirius sometimes seemed to save his slyest smiles and his best jokes for Remus, well—after all, they _were_ friends.

He’d been nearly unable to accept that Sirius wanted him at first. But Sirius had made that disbelief impossible to hold onto. Day after day he had caught Remus in surprise kisses the second they found themselves alone, had dragged him into broom cupboards and secret passageways. And he had touched Remus’ cock for the first time at James’ over the summer with hands that actually trembled.

_I can’t believe I get to do this,_ he had whispered over and over again.

The first time he had entered Remus, Remus had felt hot tears on the back of his neck.

So it had almost always been Remus who’d been the one to offer a rebuff—to protest that there were too many essays to write, too many people around, too little time; Sirius hadn’t, in those days, had much of a sense of inhibition or self-control. And Remus had been alive to the wonder of it: not only being wanted after all, but being wanted so very much.

In the attic, Remus stared into the conjured flames, the orange light flickering behind the dusty cracks and crevices of the ornate glass vase. He thought about what had come next.

The long nightmare of believing Sirius responsible for James and Lily’s deaths had thrown Remus right back into his adolescent conviction that he would never be wanted. Sirius had desired him once, yes; but that had not been strong enough to stop him from betraying them all. Remus had been alone again, and he had been certain that he would remain alone. That had been his one chance: those few brief years of Sirius’ hands on his skin.

It had taken longer the second time to believe Sirius really did want him. Want him still, or again. They’d both cried when they fucked for the first time after Azkaban. The first time, and many of the times after that.

Then they’d come to Grimmauld Place. Predictably, so predictably, Sirius’ mood had begun to spiral rapidly downward almost at once—not just down but away, away from Remus and the world; and Remus probably shouldn’t have been surprised at how quickly he accepted once more that he was not wanted.

“You _are_ wanted,” he said aloud, very quietly. The edges of his words were blunted by the dust lying thick on every surface, which absorbed sounds nearly as much as a muffling charm. He put a hand on his knee and stroked it quickly with his thumb. “You are.”

It was true and it wasn’t—but it was more true than not. Sirius’s desire, and even his love, was buried, not gone, lodged somewhere beneath deep drifts. Drifts like snowfall or like all the dust in this attic piled in one great heap, stifling and deadening and grey: but below it all remained a bright burning light nearly covered over, barely visible, but there, still there.

The thing was that this time, he believed it. As much as his gut clenched when Sirius pulled away from him, and as easily as his brain fell back into its old habit of cutting off his impulses to reach out and touch, he did believe that Sirius still loved him. He even believed that Sirius would want him again. He wasn’t sure Sirius believed that right now—but Remus did.

“Huh,” he said aloud.

Well. That was something. More than something. It was, very nearly, everything.

Yet still there was inside him that great swamp of grief, and himself at the edge of it. He was peering into the murky waters; he was testing them with a single toe. Too deep to fathom. But he had a boat. Or at least a ramshackle raft on which to stay afloat.

He could do it. He had done harder things than this.

But this was still very hard.

He shivered in a sudden draft as the wind rattled against the poorly insulated windows and stuck his hands deep into the sleeves of his sweater.

It helped, what they had been doing. It helped. Remus had never thought of himself as—well, as dominant, the adjective, let alone as dominant, the noun: as interested, really, in power at all. It had shocked him how much it went to his head.

But it was so hard to know how to navigate it all. What they were doing was some strange mix of kink and care and desperation and Remus was itching to talk it out with Sirius—to not be so alone in his head with his feelings and his newly dawning understanding and hope and need—to know for certain what Sirius was going through when he bowed his head and did what Remus told him, or that one time late at night when he had whispered _Daddy._ That word from Sirius’ mouth in this house—but Remus was painfully aware that right now nothing was more likely to make Sirius run like hell than being asked to articulate his feelings.

Not talking about it meant that Remus had to navigate via his own intuition and his own knowledge of Sirius, something he thought he could probably manage but that did at times feel sharply lonely. Remus could read in Sirius’ hooded eyes and curled-up knees the shape of his inner landscape—the staggering vulnerability, the brittle fear. The impossible trust. Remus, though, was made of words, and without them he couldn’t quite bridge that distance between himself and Sirius, no matter how certain he was of what Sirius needed him to do. No matter how much he hit or bathed or stroked him, no matter how much he loved that dizzying towering rush of competence and control.

But all of those things allowed Remus to place his hands on Sirius in ways Sirius could manage. So.

Remus shifted. His legs were getting stiff from sitting on the floor. Yet thinking about dominating Sirius had sent heat blooming through him. Absurd to still want sex, after all these thoughts of distance and depression. But he did. His body was alive with restlessness, little jabs that would become irritation soon enough if Remus didn’t tend to himself.

He wondered if…he let his mind flutter towards a memory from last spring, Sirius behind him with the head of his cock nudging at Remus’ hole, Sirius no doubt impatient to thrust inside but drawing it out a little longer in the way Remus liked. Remus felt heat in his arsehole and shifted till he was lying flat on his back, feet on the floor and knees raised, staring up at the beams of the attic’s sloped ceiling.

He’d thought imagining getting just absolutely railed by Sirius…he’d thought that was what he wanted. His cock twitched. But something held back his hand as he moved it down between his legs. Maybe he ought to—

_All right_ , he thought. _All right. We can do this._

He imagined Sirius, laid out naked on their bed, hands bound above his head. He imagined himself crouching over Sirius, cock out.

He could…fuck. What—

A hand around Sirius’ throat. Easy. Remus’ fingers, slotted there, pressed against the column of his windpipe. Then, squeezing. Sirius’ breath sucking in, a gasp, a raspy rattle.

Remus shifted on the attic floor, a strange icy heat swamping through him. He pushed against his crotch with the palm of his hand.

He could—

Cutting off all Sirius’ air, one second, two, three. Letting go. Dizziness swimming in Sirius’ eyes as he gulped wildly.

The heat in Remus’ cock was so sharp it was nearly painful. He rubbed his hand along the front of his straining trousers. His mouth was quite dry.

In his head, he pictured: Sirius’ open mouth, a wide O gasping for air. Remus’ cock. Logical, really. His cock, sliding between Sirius’ lips. Sliding in, and in. And in.

A tiny gag. A pause. Sirius’ eyes watering. Then another last slow push. Remus settling.

All the way in.

Tears leaking from Sirius’ eyes. The breath coming in shallowly through his nose.

Remus imagined putting his hand on Sirius’ throat again, and feeling himself inside.

Then, would he…?

Rubbing harder at his stiff clothed cock, Remus pictured sliding halfway out, then in again. Then out. Then in.

Fucking Sirius’ throat.

Small, whimpering gags.

He came in his pants, all at once. On the attic floor, he lay there gasping, one hand pressing down on his spurting cock and the other flung over his face. Damp spread across his crotch. It would be unpleasant when his come cooled and he had to make his way downstairs again. He writhed on the floor, biting his lip hard against the cries that threatened to break loose.

_All right_ , he thought, barely finished with his orgasm. _All right. It’s all right._

_Remus_ , he thought to himself, _Remus. It’s okay._


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my friends, I hope you're all doing as well as can be expected and finding things that comfort you and make you feel safe. I don't always have the wherewithal to answer comments, but it's really meaningful to hear that this fic is getting into some stuff that's important for a lot of you. much love <3

“BLOOD TRAITORS! FILTHY SCUM, BESMIRCHING MY HOUSE—”

“Ah, fuck,” Remus muttered. Every couple of weeks, the silencing charms they placed on Walburga’s portrait wore off. The last time, this had happened in the middle of the night and Remus had woken with his heart pounding, sure that Grimmauld Place had been compromised. Living with Walburga’s portrait was rather like living inside a very prolonged game of Exploding Snap.

He wiped his hands on his apron and hurried out of the kitchen before Mrs. Black could start yelling about her degenerate son. “I’ve got it,” he called out, hoping Sirius was either out of Walburga’s range or at least within his. But when he reached the entryway, Sirius was there.

“YOU ALWAYS WERE A DISAPPOINTMENT, SIRIUS BLACK! HOW DARE YOU RETURN TO THIS HOUSE! YOU ARE NO SON OF MINE—”

“Merlin’s _balls_ ,” Remus gritted out, pointing his wand at the screaming portrait. “ _Silencio_.”

“YOU DARE TRY TO SILENCE ME—”

“Oh for fuck’s sake. Sirius—”

Sirius, moving rather slowly, pulled his wand out of his pocket. Together, they performed the charm again. Walburga fell silent, though her lips continued to move, spittle flying as she waved her fist mutely in their direction.

Remus pulled the curtain across her portrait and let out a sigh.

“Ugh. Sorry. I was hoping she’d last another few days at least—”

“I was going to leave.”

Sirius spoke quietly. He wasn’t looking at Remus, or at his mother’s portrait. He was staring at the front door.

Remus fell silent. “What—” His lungs did a funny spasming thing that made him have to catch his breath. “What do you mean, you—”

“I woke up this morning and I decided to leave.” He was still facing the door. “I was going to transform into Padfoot and run to the park. I was going to chase squirrels and let Muggle children pet me. I was going to steal somebody’s newspaper and make them run after me. Then I was going to come back here and if you’d noticed I was gone I was going to tell you I’d been in the basement running on the treadmeal.”

“Treadmill,” said Remus’ mouth before his brain caught up, then, “Oh my god.”

“I didn’t,” said Sirius. He turned to look at Remus. He didn’t look guilty, but he didn’t look defiant either. He looked only terribly weary. “I didn’t, Remus. I stood here for half an hour and then when I decided not to and started walking back to the sitting room, Mother’s portrait began screaming.”

Remus stared at him. The blood was churning in his ears: _danger, danger._ “Sirius—” He took a breath through his nose. “Sirius, you _cannot_ —”

“I know.”

“The danger, Sirius, you know you were spotted as Padfoot at Kings Cross, you know they’re watching—”

“I know.”

“I know being stuck here is terrible, Sirius, I know it’s—it’s completely ruining your head, I know that, but you can’t get captured, you _can’t_ —you could get tortured or given up to the Ministry and sent back to Azkaban, and either of those things would be so much worse than being here—”

“I _know_.” For the first time there was a bite in Sirius’ voice. “I didn’t do it.”

Remus tried to get his breathing under control. He hadn’t done it. He hadn’t done it.

But he had thought about doing it.

“Sirius—”

“I’m telling you so I won’t _ever_ do it,” Sirius said sharply.

Remus pressed the back of his hand to his mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Okay,” he said. “Yes. Sorry. Thank—thank you for telling me.”

His eyes were welling with tears. He fought hard to push them back.

“Right,” he said. “Well, we should—why don’t I make some tea. We’ll just. Forget about it, then, and…”

“No. I—” Sirius’ words were cut off as abruptly as they began. Remus, still breathing shallowly, looked at him.

A faint pink flush had risen high on his cheeks. He was staring resentfully at the carpet, as if it were the thing making him speak.

“I want you to punish me for it.”

Remus’ pulse surged again.

“For thinking about leaving. I want you to make me stay.”

Remus said, slowly, “Are you…sure?”

“Please don’t fucking ask me that.”

All right. All right. _Sirius is asking for what he wants_ , Remus told himself, _so give it to him._

For a moment Remus didn’t think he could do it.

He bit the inside of his cheek, hard, and dug his nails into his palms. He gave a short nod. “Okay. Come with me.” He put out a hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Sirius took it.

But Remus didn’t know what he was actually going to do. His head was spinning as he led Sirius down the corridor and up the stairs. _Punish me. Make me stay._

_Punish me._

_Make me stay._

“On the bed,” said Remus. His voice sounded distant, even to himself. “Now. Clothes off, on the bed, on your back.”

Sirius hesitated—not, it was clear, about getting onto the bed.

“I said, clothes off,” Remus said, an edge to his voice. “I’m going to make it as difficult as possible for you to leave this house. Clothes off, now.”

Of course, Padfoot didn’t need clothes. But Remus wanted Sirius as helpless as possible. So.

Sirius, head bent, sat on the bed and began unlacing his shoes. He took them off, and then his socks, and then his sweater, and then stood to remove his trousers and pants. Remus watched, trying to will his heartbeat steady.

“Bed.” He pointed. Sirius slowly got onto the bed, sitting up awkwardly, knees raised. “On your back.”

Sirius complied. Remus, who had been trying to think of something he could use to restrain Sirius, remembered the box of rope he’d seen down in the basement, gathering dust amongst various miscellaneous items including rusty nails, extremely expired Sticking Serum, and what had appeared to be an abandoned embroidery project depicting a rather busty mermaid. “ _Accio_ ropes,” he said, pointing his wand at the floor. After a moment, he heard the faint sounds of banging and doors slamming open as the box made its clumsy way towards them. Perhaps he ought to have gone and fetched it himself. It could shatter a lamp zooming through the house like this. He wasn’t, perhaps, thinking quite straight.

Sirius blinked at him. The box appeared into the doorway and, as if exhausted by its efforts, promptly dropped to the floor with a _thud_.

Remus let out a long breath.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

He turned to Sirius.

“Count to one hundred. Slowly. Aloud.”

Sirius looked uncertain. “Why…”

“Because I want you to,” he said sharply. “I want you to get—focused.”

The truth was, _he_ wanted to get focused. He needed the time as much as Sirius did.

Sirius counted. Remus turned away and closed his eyes. He was frightened, he realized—unsurprising, but he hadn’t quite clocked that fear was behind his peculiar reaction to Sirius’ request. He was afraid of what Sirius wanted him to do; afraid he would want to do it. He also could not put out of his mind the terrified thoughts of what might have happened if Sirius had actually left Grimmauld Place.

“Forty-six. Forty-seven. Forty-eight.”

_Okay,_ thought Remus. _All right. Make him stay, then._ He considered, then glanced around the room. Did he know any knot-tying charms, or was he going to have to do it all by hand? He crouched beside the box of ropes and sifted through them. They were stiff and dusty. Remus couldn’t tell what they’d been intended for; they were the kind of thing that just accumulated, as if of its own accord, in houses that had been occupied for a long time. He picked one up, feeling its heft. It was fairly light, and about the width of his finger, and made of some organic material. It might have been for boating, though he found it hard to imagine Sirius’ family went in much for sailing holidays.

“Ninety-six, ninety-seven…”

Remus turned back to Sirius. He finished his count with a little exhale, looking a good deal less agitated than he had before.

“Good,” said Remus. “Now. Sit up, and cross your hands in front of you.”

Sirius obeyed. Remus picked out a length of rope and went to sit next to Sirius on the bed. He took Sirius’ crossed wrists in his grasp. He didn’t really know how to do this, but he supposed that Sirius could take a bit of discomfort and if it got worse than that Remus would be able to tell. He looped the rope twice around Sirius’ wrists and tied a knot, sticking one finger in between the rope and Sirius’ skin to make sure there was a little extra leeway and that the rope didn’t chafe too much.

Sirius let out a noise, something small and indeterminate. Remus looked at him sharply. Sirius bit his lip and cast his gaze down, not meeting Remus’ eyes. A faint flush had risen in his cheeks.

Remus tugged at the knot to make sure it was secure. “I’m going to make you stay,” he said.

“Yes,” Sirius whispered. “I know.”

Remus pointed his wand at the coil of rope that hung down past the knot. He had chosen quite a long length.

“ _Wingardium Leviosa._ ”

The end of the rope shot up into the air. Remus flicked his wand and they rose higher, enough to lift Sirius’ bound hands up above his head. He tinkered with the charm until the ropes were taut and Sirius’ arms were hanging nearly straight up in the air.

Sirius eyes had gone glassy. His raised shoulders revealed masses of damp dark hair in his armpits; his naked chest and belly looked vulnerable, unprotected, and his soft cock nestled between his legs, which were bent beneath him so that he was kneeling, his arse resting against his heels.

_Strung up_ , Remus thought.

“I could leave you here,” he said evenly. The stretch of Sirius’ arm muscles was doing odd things to his pulse. “All day long. Every day, tied up. Naked. You couldn’t escape then."

He could see Sirius’ Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed.

“I expect your arms would get a bit sore, but we could deal with that. Give them a break one at a time, perhaps. Massage a little feeling back into them. It would hurt, I suppose. Pins and needles.”

Sirius watched him mutely.

Remus’ breathing had sped up a bit. “I’d bring you food, of course. You’d need to eat. Keep up your strength. I’d feed it to you. You could take your soup and veg like a baby, spoon-fed right into your mouth.”

“I’d let you,” Sirius said hoarsely.

“I know you would,” Remus said. “And if you wouldn’t, I’d make you."

Sirius swallowed clumsily. Remus said, feeling somehow both reckless and steady as steel, “You’d need to relieve yourself, of course. A bucket would do.”

“Oh god.”

“I’d clean you off. Wipe your arse for you.”

“No,” Sirius breathed, voice strained. “No, that’s too much.”

Remus shook his head. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“But—” He was struggling, tugging on the ropes that held him fast. “But Remus—”

“I’ll wipe piss and shit off your arse if I say I will,” Remus said sharply. “And I’ll hit you if you try and resist.”

Sirius let out a little cry. Now he was really squirming. That was good, Remus thought, a little distantly; he needed to struggle. It would be good for him to try and struggle, as long as he couldn’t actually get away.

Remus pinched Sirius’ arm. Hard, and deliberately.

Sirius cried out and jerked away. But the ropes held him tight, and he couldn’t get out of Remus’ reach. Remus pinched him again.

“Why—?” Sirius asked plaintively.

“You thought you could get away from me.” Remus pinched him a third time, this time just below his armpit. “You can’t.”

Sirius tugged at the ropes as Remus continued to administer sharp pinches across his arms and chest. He gave a little gasp with each one and flailed harder.

“You’re going to hurt your wrists,” Remus said calmly. “You’ll hurt yourself if you don’t stop struggling.”

Sirius didn’t listen. Remus pinched his upper thigh and Sirius jerked back, wrenching his shoulders. He cried out in pain, and then went still.

They stared at each other, breathing heavily. Slowly, Remus reached out and took a nub of Sirius’ skin between his thumb and forefinger and twisted.

Sirius hissed in a breath, but didn’t move.

“Good boy,” Remus said quietly.

His head was so clear it was almost ringing. Everything seemed extra-sharp, like a camera lens set to a level of focus the human eye couldn’t quite comprehend. He looked at the little red splotches he’d made on Sirius’ skin. With a rush of decision, he put out his hand and touched Sirius’ cock.

“Remus—” Sirius said, flinching back.

“Stop,” said Remus calmly. “This isn’t about your pleasure.”

Sirius looked at him uncertainly. Warily.

“I will do what I want with you,” said Remus. “I thought I made that clear.”

Hurt shone in Sirius’ eyes, but it was laced—dosed, even, like some opiate concoction was seeping into his veins—with heavy, syrupy relief. Remus felt along Sirius’ soft cock and dipped his fingers lower, brushing against Sirius’ balls. He could feel Sirius trying to keep his breathing under control and smell the anxious sweat pooling in his armpits. He took his time. His own cock stiffened. He almost wished it wouldn’t.

“I should fuck you,” he said softly. Sirius flinched, but he didn’t try to worm away. “You’re tied up. You told me to punish you. That would be punishment, I think.”

Sirius made a choked-off noise. He looked utterly dazed.

“Would you let me stick my cock in you, Sirius?”

“I—” It came out garbled, incomprehensible. “I—I—”

“I know you wouldn’t like it. Would you let me?”

“Yes,” Sirius said in a rush. His eyes filled with tears. “Yes.”

Remus had to shut his eyes briefly and take a breath. His cock was pulsing with want.

“Good,” he said. He got to his feet and picked up his wand. He pointed it at the ropes. “ _Finite_ —”

“Wait!”

He stopped, looking at Sirius questioningly.

“Aren’t you…” Sirius gulped. “Aren’t you going to do it?”

Remus stared at him.

“Please,” Sirius whispered.

It had been dirty talk. Remus hadn’t been planning to actually stick his cock in Sirius any more than he’d been planning to make him piss in a bucket. He had wanted Sirius to struggle, and then to stop struggling. He’d wanted to get Sirius to say yes to whatever he asked.

There were lines. Surely there were lines. Boundaries they didn’t cross. If they had done this right, if they had mapped out all their stumbling-block foothills and treacherous chasms and here-be-monsters edges before setting out on this strange and perilous journey, then Remus would know precisely where those boundaries were. But if they had tried to do this right, they’d never have set out at all.

So he pictured it: himself behind Sirius, lifting up Sirius’ arse as Sirius dangled there helplessly and spearing Sirius on his cock. The image at once compelled and repulsed him.

“I want you to come in my arse,” Sirius said through gritted teeth. “I _want_ it, Remus.”

Remus looked at Sirius’ limp cock.

“I don’t want it like _that_ ,” Sirius said, “but I want it.”

Remus put down his wand. He stood and, with impossibly steady hands, undid his trousers.

Sirius let out a swift breath, his body going limp in the ropes. He’d been hanging there for seven or eight minutes by now; perhaps Remus ought to…no. Soon enough he would let Sirius loose and massage his no doubt aching shoulders. First he was going to fuck him.

His cock was dripping with precome. He stripped off his trousers and pants and climbed onto the bed behind Sirius, settling onto his knees.

He grasped Sirius by the hips. “Are you scared?” he murmured into Sirius’ ear. Sirius gave a short, sharp nod.

Remus was scared too, but the fear was somewhere underneath everything else that was reeling inside him. Underneath the windstorm, the vortex, the swirling dark of Charybdis’ whirlpool _._ He reached down to press at Sirius’ arsehole: _Here be monsters._ Sirius twitched minutely, letting out one small half-suppressed whimper, and then held himself still.

Remus breathed an internal sigh of relief. He got the lube from the bedside table and prepped Sirius methodically, not lingering, though his fingers ached to linger inside him. Sirius let out little grunts from time to time, his head bowed. Remus didn’t try to slick him up more than was necessary. He put the lube away and pressed the head of his cock up against Sirius’ arsehole.

“Ready?” he couldn’t stop himself from asking.

“No,” Sirius whispered. “Do it anyway.”

_Right._ Remus lined himself up and, slowly, contending with the odd angle and Sirius’ inability to fully hold himself steady, pushed inside. Sirius was tight and hot. Remus’ cock burned as it entered him.

“Sirius,” Remus murmured, gripping him tightly around the waist. “Stop clenching your arsehole.”

After a second, Sirius relaxed a fragment, and then, letting out a held-in breath, relaxed a few fragments more. The resistance Remus had been feeling lessened, and he sank in deeper.

He held himself there for a long moment, his face pressed against Sirius’ back. It had been _so fucking long_. His eyes started with tears. But they receded almost immediately. The thing was, this felt almost nothing like what he was used to anyway. Being buried in Sirius like this, so close and yet so far away from him, was such a strange, hushed, strained sensation. His cock pulsed. He pulled it out most of the way, then steeled himself and began to thrust.

His fucking wrung little whimpers from Sirius, whimpers that might have been shock or pain but might just have been little involuntary meaningless noises. Remus gripped Sirius so hard it probably hurt and thrust into him again and again.

Sirius was whimpering constantly by the time Remus came. His orgasm rocked through him like the detonation of an explosive, shaking him to his core as he spurted into Sirius’ arse. When he pulled out, a little faster than he should have, a drizzle of come leaked out of Sirius and onto the bedsheets.

The silence was deafening. Even their labored breaths couldn’t fill it up.

Remus took himself shakily off the bed and hurried around to look at Sirius.

His cock was limp. His face was wet with tears. “I’m not—” he tried, hiccupping, then swallowed hard and said, “I’m not going anywhere, Remus. I promise.”

Remus let go of a tight coil of anxiety he hadn’t realized he was still holding and buried his face in his hands. He took a second there, then looked back up at Sirius and, taking up his wand again, released the rope from its charm. Sirius’ limbs dropped down, a wince of pain flashing across his face. Remus scrambled at the knot with trembling fingers and when he had gotten it loose Sirius slumped into his arms.

“Oh, fuck,” Remus murmured helplessly. “Fuck, Sirius.”

“I know,” Sirius whispered.

“I love you _so goddamn much_.”

“I know. I know.” Sirius gave a great shuddering breath. “You too.”

“Yeah?”

“Of course,” Sirius said, voice thick, “ _always_ —”

“Fuck,” Remus breathed. He pulled back and grasped Sirius’ shoulders. He squeezed them gently, digging his thumbs into the muscles. Sirius gritted his teeth.

“Hurts?”

Sirius nodded.

“Lie down,” Remus said. He helped Sirius position himself on his belly, head resting on one side. He began to massage Sirius’ neck and shoulders and upper arms, loosening them up from all the strain. Sirius let him, lying limp and exhausted.

Once he’d done that, he summoned some balm from the bathroom and applied it to Sirius’ chafed wrists. Then, looking down, he realized what he’d forgotten; so, whispering reassurance as he briefly left the bed, he fetched a warm wet rag and cleaned his come from Sirius’ arsehole.

Sirius was lying there so heavily, as if he’d never move again. All the angry fight had gone out of him. Remus thought of the wild look in his eyes as he’d stood at the front door and felt a great twist of regret and relief in his chest.

He stroked Sirius’ hair. “Going to get some sleep?” he asked.

“Mmm,” Sirius murmured in assent.

“Good,” said Remus. He touched Sirius’ forehead very gently. “Good.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a heads up: some daddy kink in this chapter, and some verbal abuse from Walburga's portrait.

Christmas came, and with it a flurry of people. More like a blizzard, really: countless Weasleys running in and out of the house—except Arthur, who was, troublingly, at St. Mungo’s after his attack—Hermione Granger, various Order of the Phoenix members, and of course Harry, whose very presence seemed to lighten the invisible burden Sirius was carrying by at least half. In fact he looked healthier and more alive than Remus had seen him in months: he laughed and joked and pulled Christmas crackers and put on a silly paper hat that flashed pink and gold till the charm wore off. Remus was incredibly happy, massively relieved, and secretly hurt. Why could Harry do what he could not?

He knew the answer. He knew that being there for Harry gave Sirius the chance to feel he was being useful; he knew Harry was a change of pace; he knew that having all these people around making noise and disrupting the tedium of their daily life was the closest Sirius had come to excitement or even normality since they’d moved in. Yet he could not quite stop the little curl of resentment when Molly said how well Sirius was looking: she didn’t know what Remus had been going through, had no idea how exhausted he was.

But mostly he was conscious of a great weight lifting from his shoulders. There had, he realized, still been a part of him afraid Sirius would be dimmed and distant forever. The holidays confirmed what the rest of him had known—that though Sirius would likely always harbor dark places inside him, they’d exert less of a pull when the rest of the world was a bit brighter.

He waited to give Sirius his final Christmas present until the house had cleared out. The young people were all back at Hogwarts; the cookies had been eaten; the tree had nothing left below its boughs. Sirius was already casting moody glances around the empty rooms.

Remus had wrapped the gift in tissue paper and slipped it into a simple black velvet bag. Then he’d tucked the thought of it away in one of his mental compartments until he and Sirius were alone again. Taking it back out had caused him a certain amount of anxiety.

“What’s this?” Sirius asked when Remus presented him with the little bag.

“One more gift,” Remus said, trying to make it sound as though this were a good thing.

Sirius looked at him curiously, then tugged at the drawstrings and opened the bag. Remus bit his lip as he pulled out the thin silver band.

“A bracelet?”

“Yeah,” said Remus. “Well.”

It was a single silver piece of metal, a thin flat circle with a small opening so Sirius could fit it around his wrist. Remus had found it in a small shop in Diagon Alley and made his own alterations.

Raising an eyebrow, Sirius slipped it on. “What, er…”

“Yeah. There’s more to it than that,” Remus said quickly. He flashed Sirius a nervous smile. “It’s real silver, though, so if you hate it you can melt it down into a bullet and shoot me with it at the next full moon.”

“Remus—”

“Yeah, yeah. Come here.”

He put out a hand for Sirius. After a moment, Sirius took it, and Remus led him out of the room and down the hall, stopping only once they’d reached the entryway where Walburga Black’s mercifully silent portrait stood.

Remus’ pulse was racing. This had, perhaps, been an extremely stupid idea.

“Walk forward,” he said. “Till you’re almost at the front door.”

Warily, Sirius did. He’d just about reached the doormat when he jerked back, giving out a little yelp of surprise.

He raised his wrist to his other hand, touching the bracelet gingerly.

“Ow,” he said.

Remus’ stomach churned. He tried to call up the little speech of explanation he’d planned, but the words didn’t want to come.

Sirius stepped toward the door again, more carefully this time. He winced as he crossed that invisible threshold but didn’t jump back.

“It’s not really that painful,” he said, looking at the silver band. “More like—a little bit of burning.” He looked curiously at Remus.

“It won’t cause any damage,” Remus said quietly. “And if you…” He took a breath. “If you went out the door, it would stop.”

The silence wrapped around them as they met each other’s eyes. Sirius looked down at his arm, then stepped away from the door. He shook out his wrist a little, gaze pensive.

“I thought it might help…slow you down,” Remus said quietly. “If you’re ever feeling like you were that time you…when you almost went outside. It’ll just—remind you. To take a second. It won’t actually stop you from leaving, of course, and like I said, once you’re out of the house the charm goes away, so you’re still totally in control of—of yourself, I just—”

“You want me to think of you,” Sirius said. His voice was low and he was looking right into Remus’ eyes. “You know I already do, right?”

Remus swallowed. “I know you know it would hurt me if you put yourself in danger. But I know that doesn’t always…work, in the moment. When you’re feeling—” He hesitated. “Reckless.”

“So…”

“So I want you to think of me punishing you, Sirius,” he said. “And holding you down.”

Sirius bit his lip, hard.

Remus waited, trying to still the chaos of voices whirling around inside his head. This was such a delicate fucking balance, he’d gone over and over it, the same circular thoughts whirling as he fiddled with the bracelet and worked out the charm; Sirius’ autonomy, Sirius’ freedom of choice, Sirius’ depression, Sirius’ wild impulsive moods, Sirius’ regret, Sirius’ self-loathing; and Sirius pleading, _Make me stay._

“Okay,” Sirius said softly. He pressed the bracelet tighter around his wrist and tugged his sleeve down over it. “I can’t promise—”

“I know,” Remus said quickly.

“But I’ll wear it. I’ll…think of you. If…”

Remus nodded. “Thank you. I—”

Sirius gripped the hem of Remus’ shirt and pulled him in, pushing his face into Remus’ shoulder. After a second’s hesitation Remus wrapped his arms around Sirius and held him close.

“Can you…” Sirius murmured after a minute. “I’m so tired, Remus. All those people. I just want…”

He trailed off. Remus said slowly, “You want me to take care of you?”

Sirius’ hand spasmed where he was holding Remus and he nodded, face still buried in Remus’ neck.

“All right,” Remus said. He rubbed small circles over Sirius’ back, feeling the anxiety of the previous interaction trickling away as Sirius relaxed into him. “All right, love.”

“Like that night,” Sirius whispered. The words were so quiet Remus almost didn’t hear.

“Like that night,” he repeated. He swallowed. “You mean.”

“When I had a bad dream.”

A wave of protectiveness slammed through Remus. He put a hand on the back of Sirius’ head, pressing it to him, and then pulled away enough that he could look Sirius in the face.

“All right, sweetheart.” He tucked a strand of hair behind Sirius’ ear. Sirius’ eyes had gone dark; he looked afraid. “All right, my sweet boy.”

Sirius breathed in, a shaky breath through his nose, then out again.

“D—” He stuttered. “D—"

He couldn’t get the word out. Remus understood; it felt impossibly outsized, here in the daylight and so close to the outside world; a lumbering thing, hopelessly incongruous and yet somehow slightly threatening—a sliver of shame, a lump of embarrassment, a grown adult shoving themself into a babyish dress too tight and frilly and pink. But Remus needed him to say it.

“What do you call me, honey?”

Sirius bit his lip, hard. “Da—” He swallowed convulsively. “Remus, I—not _here_ , can’t we go to bed—”

“Here,” Remus said firmly. It felt, somehow, important. “Say it here, and then I’ll put you to bed.”

Sirius’s hands clenched into fists. He opened his mouth, and then with a jerk of frustration kicked out against the wall. His foot connected with a loud _thud._

“BLOOD TRAITORS!”

At the sound of curtains sliding violently along a rod, Remus and Sirius looked up. Walburga’s portrait stared down at them in fury and disgust.

_Shit,_ Remus thought, his impulse to shut her up as fast as possible galvanizing him. He thrust his hand into his pocket, feeling for his wand.

“YOU ARE NO SON OF MINE, SIRIUS BLACK—”

Sirius, now pinched and pale, raised his own wand and pointed it at his mother’s portrait.

“Wait,” Remus said suddenly.

There must have been a note of authority in his voice, because Sirius paused.

“Why—?”

“BESMIRCHING THE FAMILY HOME WITH YOUR HALF-BREED FRIENDS—”

Remus took Sirius by the wrists, gently extracting his wand from his hand. Sirius stared at him.

“YOUR PERVERSITY BEFOULS THIS HOUSE!” Sirius’ mother shrieked.

“Say it,” said Remus quietly.

“Say what?”

“Say what you were going to say. What am I, Sirius?”

“YOU ARE A STAIN ON THE NAME OF BLACK—”

“What am I, Sirius?”

Sirius looked like bile was rising in his throat. He shook his head violently. “Remus. Please.”

“Tell me.”

“DISOWNED!” Walburga shrieked. “YOU ARE NOTHING TO ME, SIRIUS BLACK—”

Sirius had gone green.

“Tell me.”

“YOU HAVE ALWAYS BEEN A DISAPPOINTMENT AND A FAILURE, I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN, WE SHOULD HAVE DROWNED YOU AT BIRTH LIKE A SICKLY KITTEN.”

“ _Tell me_ , Sirius.”

Sirius’ eyes flickered to his mother’s portrait. Remus took his chin firmly in his hand and looked him straight in the eye.

“What am I?”

YOU ARE NO SON OF MINE—”

“My daddy,” Sirius whispered.

“ _Silencio,_ ” Remus commanded, pulling his wand out of his pocket and pointing it straight between Walburga’s eyes. For once, the charm worked without anyone else to back him up. The old woman fell immediately silent, mouth opening and shutting like a fish. Remus flicked his wand and the curtains slid shut, a cloud of dust coughing out as they slammed into each other.

The air in the room was very still. A few dust motes floated in the light from the mullioned glass window above the front door. Sirius looked stunned, eyes dazed as if he’d been hit over the head.

“Come,” Remus said, putting out a hand. Sirius took it. Remus felt as if he were made of steel, his chest an impenetrable plate of armor and his grip unbreakable.

He led Sirius up the stairs, into his childhood bedroom. He sat him down on the twin bed with the Gryffindor sheets.

“I’m very proud of you,” he said.

Sirius swallowed convulsively.

Remus pressed his hand in his own. “You were a very brave boy just then.”

“Remus,” Sirius whispered, desire and shame battling in his eyes.

“Daddy,” said Remus calmly. “Right now, I’m Daddy. Do you understand?”

Sirius nodded.

“Good boy.” He smoothed back Sirius’ hair. “It’s time for a nap, my love.”

“But—”

He clicked his tongue. “No buts. You’re very tired and overstimulated and you need a rest. Are you comfortable enough in those clothes, or do you want to change into your pajamas?”

“These are okay,” Sirius whispered.

“All right. Lie down then, honey.”

Sirius obeyed, sliding beneath the sheets. Remus pulled the covers up to his chin.

“There. Now close your eyes, okay?”

Sirius did. Then, after a second, he blinked them open.

“Stay with me?”

Remus smoothed his hair again. “All right, love. I’ll stay with you.”

Sirius nodded, looking suddenly exhausted. He closed his eyes again. Remus looked down at him, gently combing his fingers through Sirius’ hair.

He _was_ proud of Sirius. He was so very, very proud.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay! a heads up for a few things in this chapter: more daddy kink, more ageplay (mostly implied, in the way remus and sirius talk to each other), and sirius touches remus while remus is sleeping. although remus is more than okay with this, they didn't discuss it prior to remus falling asleep.

They fell asleep in Sirius’ bed, curled up together on the narrow mattress, Sirius pressed against the wall and Remus hugging the outer edge, the red-and-gold quilt draped over their too-big, too-grown-up bodies. Remus drifted through vague dreams tinged with shadows and fog. When he found himself returning to consciousness it happened very slowly, like rising upwards towards the blurry light of the sun above the water while surfacing from a deep lake. Warmth enveloped him, tingling through him, wrapping him in a feeling of peace and well-being. Then his body was pulling him awake, gently, his mind floating behind in a syrupy haze. He let out a little sigh, barely conscious he was doing so, and inched closer to the source of the good feeling, the warm solid mass beside him that was drawing him back into the waking world. As he moved nearer the goodness seemed to swirl and concentrate, coming together, developing shape and specificity; he felt it in shivers, now, and soft imprints on his skin; it took tangible form, pressure and weight; he moaned. His breath was catching in his throat. Slowly, through a haze, he became conscious of the fact that his trousers were open and his pants were pulled down in front, the waistband pressing against his upper thighs. There were light touches happening, gentle, exploratory. Sirius was touching him.

His eyes fluttered open. Sirius had turned to face him and was lying still except for one hand, which was moving between Remus’ legs. Sirius was watching himself touch Remus, watching himself run his fingers along Remus’ cock, his balls, his thighs, watching himself play with Remus’ pubic hair. He wasn’t jerking him off. He was merely touching, pressing and feeling and stroking as if he were just…curious.

His eyes flickered up to catch Remus’. Remus could see him swallow.

“Is this okay?” he asked tentatively.

Remus, who still felt the heavy tendrils of sleep pulling at him, nodded, eyes closing briefly as Sirius’ hand stilled against his prick.

“Yes,” he said, the word coming out hoarse. “Yes.”

“I just…” Sirius ducked his head, fingers moving once again, trailing lower and pressing light circles around Remus’ balls. He whispered, “I wanted to see how it would feel.”

Heat snaked through Remus’ belly. The room was so quiet, so still.

“Is that okay, Daddy?”

His fingers traced down Remus’ cock, rubbing gently at the precome gathering at the tip. Not teasingly; not with intention. At least, not with intention aimed at Remus.

“Yes, love,” Remus said, breath gathering in his lungs as Sirius’ evident absorption in his task fed Remus’ growing arousal. His cock was slowly rising. Sirius traced the veins, felt it as it hardened.

“So big,” he said breathily. His hand closed briefly around it. “It’s getting bigger, Daddy.”

Remus stifled a gasp. “That’s what happens when it feels good down there, darling.”

“It feels good?” Sirius asked hopefully.

“Yeah, baby.”

Sirius gripped his cock again, a little more firmly this time. Remus bit his lip, hard.

“I make you feel good?”

“Oh, god. Yes. Yes, love.”

Sirius squeezed a little. Remus’ cock grew stiffer.

“Mine doesn’t do this,” Sirius said, looking down at Remus’ prick. “Why not, Daddy?”

Remus’ heart clenched painfully. _Oh, shit_ , he thought, though the waves of good feeling were still pulsing through him. “It will, baby,” he said, arousal giving an edge to his voice. “It will. Someday.”

“When?” Sirius’ voice had grown a little tighter, but he was still running his fingers over Remus’ genitals; he was squeezing Remus’ balls between thumb and forefinger now.

“I don’t know, love,” Remus said, swallowing hard. “It’ll happen when you’re ready.”

“You mean I’m just not ready yet?” Sirius said after a pause.

“That’s right,” Remus replied, sparks shooting through his prick. “But you will be.”

“When?” The word was almost petulant.

“I don’t know, love. Your body will tell you. You… _ah_ …you have to be patient.”

Sirius was still playing with Remus as if he didn’t know how to bring him to climax. Maybe as if he didn’t even know he could.

“Be patient for Daddy,” Remus said, back arching.

“Okay,” Sirius said softly. He fingered Remus’ cock gently. “Daddy,” he said, “can I taste it?”

“Taste…” Remus gasped.

“Your…thing.”

Remus closed his eyes briefly, steadying himself. “My penis, love?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. But it might not taste very nice.”

“That’s all right.”

Sirius took his hand away and scooted down, the quilt bunching up as he went. He had to curl his legs up tightly to get himself level with Remus’ groin while still remaining on the narrow bed.

Sirius held Remus’ cock gently, almost gingerly, and then brought his mouth to the glistening head, touching it with just the tip of his tongue.

Heat shot through Remus.

“Oh,” said Sirius. “It tastes…funny. I’m not sure I like it, Daddy.”

For half a second the memory of the time Sirius had swallowed three loads of Remus’ come in one night flashed through Remus’ mind. Then Sirius gave another experimental lick and the image vanished.

“It’s…”

“Bitter?” Remus suggested. He could feel Sirius’ warm breath against his cock.

“Yes,” Sirius said. “But…I _want_ it.”

He looked up at Remus, surprise plain on his face.

“I want it.”

Remus exhaled shakily and ran a hand through Sirius’ hair. “You can suck on me if you like.”

Sirius paused, then bent closer and took the head of Remus’ cock in his mouth. He sucked. It was only an inch or so deep. Remus gasped at the strangeness of it.

Sirius kept sucking, diligently now, pushing his lips farther down around Remus’ cock. His tongue licked clumsily against it. Remus could hear him breathing hard through his nose. After about a minute, he suddenly thrust his head down and pushed his mouth almost all the way up Remus’ prick.

Immediately, he choked, pulling off messily as he gagged, coughing and gasping for breath. “Sirius,” Remus said, alarmed. Sirius looked up at him, face red and eyes watering, still swallowing hard.

“I took too much,” he said hoarsely. “I wanted to—” He swallowed again, trying to get his breathing under control.

“Shh,” said Remus, stroking Sirius’ hair as arousal soared through him. “Shh, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

Sirius pressed his face against Remus’ groin for a long moment, till his breath came steady again.

“Here,” said Remus, reaching down and taking his cock in hand. He offered the head to Sirius. “Just keep sucking. It feels good, I promise.”

“But I want more, Daddy,” Sirius whispered.

“You’ll get more if you keep sucking. I promise.”

Sirius blinked up at him with wide, trusting eyes. He bent down again and took Remus’ cock back into his mouth. He resumed sucking, rhythmic and steady, as if he was determined to do a good job.

If Remus hadn’t been so starved for Sirius’ touch the small amount of contact with just the head of his prick might not have been enough to bring him off, but as it was, he felt his orgasm coming from a long way away. As it built, he said to Sirius, voice strained, that Sirius would please Daddy very much if he swallowed.

Sirius’ sucking grew more frantic and he gripped Remus’ legs, holding tightly as if they were keeping him anchored. Remus’ arousal rose and rose and balanced just on the edge; then it crested, spilling hot into Sirius’ mouth.

Sirius made a little noise at the back of his throat and Remus could feel him trying hard to swallow fast enough to get it all down. He gagged a little again and the sound sent more come flooding out of Remus; Sirius whimpered and strained to breathe through his nose. When Remus had finally finished, Sirius took his mouth away. Remus blindly pulled him up into his arms. There was come around Sirius’ lips where it had leaked out despite his best efforts; some had dribbled down onto his chin. He hugged Sirius hard, stroking his back with trembling hands.

“It was a lot, Daddy,” Sirius whispered.

“I know, love.”

“It was hard.”

“I know. You did beautifully.”

Sirius sighed and burrowed into Remus’ chest. “Thank you for letting me, Daddy.”

Remus almost asked—wanted to ask— _Did you like it?_ But he stopped himself, the words stumbling to a halt behind closed lips.

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.” He hesitated. “You’re—a very brave boy, you know.”

He could feel Sirius squirming a little against the praise; squirming, for a moment, against the fiction. But Sirius merely murmured, “Thank you, Daddy,” and pushed himself deeper into Remus’ arms.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhh...happy Valentine's Day? this is a chapter you'll probably want to take some care with if you've got feelings around mental health and/or loving people with mental health issues; Remus and Sirius are having a lot of feelings about that here. there's also some touching on the fact that they haven't been verbally negotiating the kink stuff so far. if you want more information about either of those things before reading, I'm going to post a little more info at the end of the chapter so you can scroll down and read those notes first.
> 
> also, whatever insights there may be in this chapter I share entirely with the people I love who have been through some of this stuff with me. enormous gratitude for being okay with my putting those experiences into writing and sharing them with the world. <3

Order meetings were getting longer and more frustrating. Everyone had more bad news and different ideas about what to do about it. One rainy morning saw them disbanding in exquisitely awkward silence after a heated debate over the question of reaching out to giant communities in the Welsh mountains. Remus had been asked to weigh in a few too many times for his liking, given that werewolves and giants were entirely different and expertise in one area did not mean expertise in another. Sirius was particularly moody as the members trailed out; his suggestions that they begin implementing a more aggressive strategy for tracking down Death Eaters had not been taken seriously.

He glared at the closed front door, a sour expression settling onto his face.

“I know,” said Remus. “That was not a particularly standout meeting.”

“Fucking idiots,” Sirius muttered. “What are they waiting for? You-Know-Who to start torching houses again?”

Remus shrugged. “I mean…it does make some sense to not make the first really public move. We don’t want to be seen as the aggressors.”

Sirius snorted. Remus put a hand on his shoulder; he twitched away. Remus reached out again to smooth his hair down. “Come on, love,” he said, thinking perhaps it would be a relief for them both to try and put the morning behind them. “I think it’s time for a rest.”

Sirius jerked back. “Stop babying me, Remus. I’m not an actual child.”

Remus blinked. Slowly, he lowered his hand.

“I—I know,” he said uncertainly. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to…”

“Yes, you _were_ ,” Sirius said. His fists were clenched at his sides. “You were trying to smooth me over. To make me stop feeling angry.”

“Not—” Remus’ eyes were, unaccountably, smarting. “Not that, just…”

“Just what?”

“ _Help_ you,” Remus said, helplessly. “Make it—make it better.”

“Make _me_ better.”

“I…”

“I’m not _broken_ , Remus.”

He turned sharply and strode down the corridor, into the kitchen.

Remus followed. “I don’t—I don’t think you’re—”

He couldn’t quite finish the sentence. It wouldn’t have been entirely true. Sirius was looking at him like he knew what Remus was thinking.

“You think I’m broken.”

“Not—” Remus drew in a breath and steadied himself against the doorframe. His head was spinning. “Not…exactly that, Sirius, just—something’s not—not right with you, yeah? I mean. Not permanently, not—not something that will last forever, it’s—it’s not like you’ll never get back to normal.”

“Normal.” Sirius’s lips pressed together into a thin line. “ _This_ is normal right now.”

“But…”

“I’m so fucking tired of feeling broken,” Sirius bit out. “Like I’m supposed to be trying to _fix_ myself.”

“But…” Remus swallowed hard; it wouldn’t do any good to start crying. “But you don’t—I mean, surely you don’t—this isn’t what you _want_ to feel like, is it?”

“It’s how I _do_ feel. And I just—I know you want me to be different, not the Sirius I am now but the Sirius I was before, and I just—I—I hate feeling like I’m not really myself. That you’re looking at me and wanting me to be a different me.”

Remus sat down hard at the kitchen table and put his hands over his face to hide the tears that had begun spilling out of his eyes. He tried to keep his voice steady, as if somehow he could stop Sirius from noticing he was crying.

“I don’t…” He couldn’t put the words together. “But…but you…” He swallowed, trying to rid himself of the lump in his throat. _But you’re_ not _really you._ “I don’t—it’s not that I think you should—should be doing anything else right now, I mean, I get it, you’re not—you can’t just—fix it, it’s just—”

“See,” Sirius said bitterly. “Fix it. You want me to fix it.”

 _Of course I want you to fix it!_ Remus thought wildly, feeling as if he had gone suddenly mad; what else was he supposed to feel about the fact that Sirius was utterly miserable and barely wanted to touch him? “I’m sorry, I—I shouldn’t have said it like that.”

“I can’t do anything differently right now,” Sirius said, voice stubborn but strained. He wasn’t crying like Remus was, in great floods, but small, infrequent tears had begun squeezing themselves out of the corners of his eyes and leaving glistening tracks on his cheeks. “I can’t.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

He wasn’t. He _hadn’t_. He hadn’t ever said that Sirius should be able to just deal with the situation or his depression, had been trying so incredibly hard _not_ to say that, not to even think it, he knew, he knew, of course he did, how badly Sirius was suffering because of circumstances beyond his control and that Sirius wasn’t _choosing_ to suffer and that all he, Remus, could do was be patient and—and steady and—and wait. For—yes. For Sirius to be…better.

How could he _not_ be waiting for that? Was he supposed to just—just accept that this was how it is?

“It just hurts,” he said, inadequately, with a great inelegant sniffle that failed to stop snot from leaking out of his nose.

“Yeah,” said Sirius, still a little bitterly. “I know. I can tell.”

Remus’ eyes overflowed again. His chest was clenching up, and his stomach; he felt a little nauseated. He had been trying _so hard_ not to put his resentment on Sirius. He knew it wasn’t fair to feel resentful, knew it wasn’t helpful to pile his own hurt on top of Sirius’ pain. He also knew it was okay for him to hurt, to be upset, to feel that yawning chasm of grief and loss when he wanted and could not have Sirius’ hands on his skin. Wasn’t it?

“I’m sorry,” he said again, though he felt only half sorry and half a kind of stifled bemused anger. “I didn’t mean to show you—”

“I’m not a _child_ ,” Sirius snapped again. “You don’t have to protect me. I know what you feel about all this, I can tell.”

Remus frantically wiped at his wet face. He was trying to breathe steadily enough that he didn’t let out the cramped animal noises that were threatening to emerge from his throat.

“I just _miss_ you,” he whispered.

Sirius looked suddenly very weary. “I’m tired of feeling like I’m not really here.”

Remus pushed his palms hard against his eyes and stood up, opening one of the cabinets to find some paper towels he’d stashed away there. He tore off a couple, blew his nose, and wiped his face. His nose filled immediately with snot again. He took another paper towel from the roll, then another. He steadied himself against the kitchen counter.

“I’m sorry,” he said, mostly managing to keep the tremor from his voice. Frustration and confusion and defensive anger were still roiling around inside him, but the guilt and the apology were real. He could understand why Sirius felt this way. He didn’t know where that left him, but he understood.

“I’m sorry, I…” He blew his nose again. “Yeah. Okay. I won’t—I’m sorry I talked about it like that, Sirius. You’re not broken.”

“Can I have a paper towel?”

Remus tore one off and handed it to him. Sirius wiped at his face, though most of the tear tracks had already dried.

“Thanks,” Sirius said. He looked utterly exhausted now. “I. I needed to say that. I think I’d been needing to say it for a long time.”

A few more tears pushed themselves out of Remus’ eyes. Sirius stepped forward and gave him a hug, so brief that Remus didn’t get a chance to hug back. “I love you,” he said.

The words should have made Remus feel better, but they didn’t. Maybe because it was never Sirius’ love that had been in question. “I love you too,” he said. He swallowed. “I think I’m going to, er. Wash up. Maybe a shower.”

“Okay,” Sirius said. “I’m going to make some tea, if you want any later.”

“Er. Maybe.”

Remus hurried out of the room. He climbed the stairs as quickly as he could. Once he’d made it into the bathroom he leaned back against the door and slid down to the floor. He buried his face in his hands. The sobs came out, louder than he wanted them to. His fingers itched to take up his wand and perform a muffling charm, but it seemed like that would be more of the sort of trying to hide his feelings that Sirius had said didn’t work. That came out passive aggressive and bitter.

But what was he supposed to do instead? Tell Sirius every time he felt abandonment slice through him when Sirius didn’t want to sit next to him on the couch? Describe in detail the hollow space left behind by the long nights of talking and touching and fucking they’d done in the year after Azkaban, when they’d relearned each other to such breathless levels of intimacy that Remus had thought it was impossible to be closer to another human being? That wouldn’t help Sirius; that wasn’t fair to Sirius, it…it just…

The only other option seemed to be that Remus not feel those things, and that hurt. The idea that Sirius might want him to just give up that intimacy they’d shared. To stop awaiting its return.

But _broken_ , he didn’t want Sirius to feel _broken_ , that was horrible, of course it was, and he didn’t want Sirius to feel that he didn’t _count_ until his depression lifted, that he wasn’t himself or who Remus wanted. He just—he just thought they’d both been on the same page, that this was miserable, that Sirius wanted to be back to normal—

 _Normal_ , again, there, the word Sirius didn’t want him to say; and of _course_ he didn’t, but after twelve years of burying himself in solitude while Sirius was in Azkaban Remus had been desperately, impossibly grateful to be able to say he felt normal again. Surely Sirius wanted that, too? But maybe Sirius’ depression meant he couldn’t want anything, really, couldn’t feel the absence of Remus’ intimacy the way Remus felt it—

He sobbed again, scrabbling for toilet paper to blow his overflowing nose. His eyes felt scraped raw but they were still leaking, still releasing tears whenever Remus doubled over with another burst of frustration or confusion or grief.

He didn’t _understand_. He had been trying so hard. Had he been—fuck, had he been wrong? Had Sirius not wanted the—oh, god, had he not wanted the power play, the—the daddy stuff, all of that? Remus had thought—he had thought, _thank Merlin we can do this at least_ , thought it was the one blessed way Sirius had been able to give himself up to being cared for—but—but—

He burst out of the bathroom, hands shaking, throat thick with snot and tears, and trembling with a kind of helpless terror he stumbled his way back downstairs.

“Sirius,” he said, “Sirius—”

“Remus!” Sirius looked up from his cup of tea and stood, alarmed. His face was dry; in fact, he looked more peaceful than Remus had seen him in days.

“Did I fuck it up, Sirius, did I—hurt you, did I pressure you—”

“What?” Sirius said, hurrying over to Remus. “Wait, what?”

“Did I push you into something you—you didn’t want, did you do it because I wanted it—Sirius—”

“Remus,” Sirius said firmly. He took Remus’ shaking wrists in his hands and pulled them gently away from Remus’ tear-streaked face. “What are you talking about? When do you think you pushed me into something I didn’t want?”

“The…sex,” Remus whispered. “And the rest of it. Telling you what to do, and. And treating you like a child, you said you didn’t want to be treated like a child…”

“ _Oh_.” Sirius pulled Remus into a hug. “No, love. No. That’s not what I meant.”

“But…” Remus couldn’t get the words out. He wasn’t breathing very well.

“No,” Sirius said. He squeezed Remus hard. Harder than he had in ages. “You have not done anything to pressure me or coerce me and I haven’t done anything I didn’t want to do.” He drew back and made Remus sit down. He sat next to him, pulling his chair close. “I only meant outside of that. In general. When it’s…a thing we’re doing, it’s all right.”

“I thought it helped,” Remus said a little wildly.

“It did. It does.” Sirius took his hand, though Remus tried not to let him, it was so wet and snotty and disgusting; “It’s just that sometimes I feel frustrated by people acting like I’m too fucked up to be taken seriously. Not just you. The rest of the Order, Dumbledore, he doesn’t think I’m fit for anything, and Molly…bless her heart, but she treats me like an invalid. If I ate all the cream soups and potato dishes she sent me I’d be made of cream and potatoes by now.”

“But I…”

“Remus. It’s not that. I’m not upset about the hitting, or the washing, or the feeding. Or the being put to bed. Or the bracelet.” He showed Remus the thin silver band on his wrist. “It’s just the other stuff, the ordinary daily stuff.”

“I’ve been failing you,” Remus whispered. “With the ordinary stuff. The daily stuff.”

“Not _failing_ —”

“Yes,” said Remus. “Yes. You said. I’ve been saying the wrong things, feeling the wrong things or—or at least showing you the wrong feelings, and it’s _not fair_ , I’ve been trying _so hard_ , I don’t understand, I don’t understand how I’m supposed to not wish we could be close again, it’s like a fucking _limb_ that’s been severed, and I—I don’t—of course I don’t want you to feel bad all the time, I want to be here with you the way that you are now, but—but I’ve been _trying_ , and I can’t—I can’t understand how I was supposed to do anything differently—”

“I didn’t say you were supposed to do anything differently.” Remus opened his mouth; Sirius shook his head. “I just needed to tell you how I felt.”

“But…” Remus’s stupid eyes were still overflowing. They felt dry and puffy but still they kept producing tears. “But I did it wrong.”

Sirius looked at him for a moment, then said, “What on earth makes you think you’d be able to do it right?”

Remus stared at him.

“This is an absolutely, utterly impossible situation,” Sirius said. “It’s complete shit. I’m a disaster, and apparently,” he looked Remus up and down, “you are too. Why should either of us be able to handle this perfectly? Why should we think it’s possible for us to _never hurt each other_?”

“I…”

“Why is it so important to you that you do everything right?”

The switch turned off: the tears stopped. Remus’ hands ceased trembling. He felt lightheaded, but the panicked flutter in his chest had abruptly disappeared.

“Oh,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Oh.”

Remus wiped his face again. Sirius held out a paper towel. He blew his nose.

“I guess that would be a pretty ridiculous thing to expect from myself,” he said, giving a watery smile.

“Yeah, it really would.”

Sirius squeezed his hand. Remus squeezed back.

“I’m sorry, I…”

“Remus John Lupin, if you apologize right now I’m feeding you to Buckbeak.”

That startled a laugh out of Remus. He took a few very deep breaths.

“Seems like you’ve been pretending you’re more okay than you are again,” Sirius said wryly. “Classic Moony behavior. I’d have recognized it under different circumstances, but…” He shrugged. “Tea?”

“Yeah,” said Remus. “Yeah, thanks.”

Sirius stood up. He paused for a second, then kissed Remus on the top of his head before putting the kettle on.

“Lots of sugar,” said Remus.

“Oh yes,” said Sirius. “And lots of milk.”

“Weak and sweet.”

“Weak and sweet.” Sirius smiled at him a little. “I love you.”

This time, it did help to hear. “I love you too,” said Remus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for those who would like more specific content warnings before reading: in this chapter, Sirius expresses frustration with Remus for the way Remus seems to want Sirius to "get better"; Sirius is tired of feeling broken. while working through that, Remus has a moment of worry that he's been pressuring Sirius into having sex/doing power play stuff he didn't really want. Sirius assures him (honestly) that Remus has not been pressuring him. they end the chapter having gotten to a good place with each other again.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a short one this time. thanks for reading, everybody.

Sirius started touching him again. Just a little, but Remus noticed right away. It was a hand on his shoulder as Sirius passed by; it was a face pressed into his arm as they lay in bed. It was a choice to sit on the sofa next to Remus instead of in the armchair. It was—Remus shocked and swamped with gratitude every time—a kiss on the mouth in the morning.

He thought that some of it had to do with the weather. Spring was turning out to be unusually mild this year, and sunshine and brisk fresh breezes came in through the open windows, airing out the close and stuffy rooms. It might have been Harry’s letters, full of teenage angst and worry about his O.W.L.s, which gave Sirius someone else’s unhappiness to focus on instead of his own. And it might, Remus thought, it might in some small part be due to the little space they had carved out for themselves in Sirius’ childhood bedroom, where Remus tucked him in on the nights when Sirius couldn’t sleep.

After the March full moon, Sirius put Remus to bed. It was in their own bedroom under their own faded quilt, but he kissed him on the forehead just as Remus often did him. Remus, whose transformations left him exhausted and achy—side effects of the Wolfsbane that were preferable to the bites and bruises of his youth but still significant—dozed all day. Sirius fed him soup, even though Remus protested that he wasn’t sick. Sirius stroked his hair and Remus couldn’t pretend the weight of Sirius’ hand on his head didn’t raise a lump in his throat.

That evening, after clearing away the dinner tray he’d brought, Sirius lay next to Remus, hand moving gently over Remus’ chest. Remus watched him, but Sirius didn’t look back; he kept his eyes down as he did what could only be called petting Remus, stroking his upper arm, his wrist, his hand; his belly, his hips, his thighs; his knees, his shins. His elbows. The join of his neck to his shoulders.

“Is this okay?” he asked softly, after maybe twenty minutes.

It was more than okay; it was like getting into a hot bath after standing outside in freezing rain. Like his frostbitten extremities were warming up. Remus nodded.

Sirius petted him more, rucking up Remus’ shirt to touch his stomach. His fingers moved up Remus’ ribs, tracing each one. Remus had to keep remembering to breathe; he felt like any too-quick movement would startle Sirius away.

Sirius bent his head and, lying down alongside Remus’ body, kissed Remus’ side. He nuzzled it with his nose, then kissed it again, and again a little higher up. It was almost as if he were still petting Remus, pressing his face against Remus’ side, skin against skin.

Remus’ cock had been filling from the moment Sirius began to touch him, but Sirius’ lips and the brush of Sirius’ tongue made him immediately hard. He let it happen, though, just breathed through his nose and let the feeling wash through him. Really, his arousal was simply automatic, almost an afterthought. It was his side, his torso, his ribs that were demanding his attention—starved, he’d been touch-starved, and he’d known it, but he hadn’t known just how much.

Sirius kissed and nosed up Remus’ side, pushing his t-shirt farther up with his face as he went. It bunched up when it reached the join of his arm. Sirius pushed it up a little farther—the brush of his fingers against Remus’ skin sending another pulse of arousal through Remus—and resumed kissing. He kissed higher, nose tickling the hair in Remus’ armpit. He kissed the hair. He licked up, into the crease.

Remus gasped. He’d been instinctively holding back any noise, uncertain whether this attention was meant to be sexual or affectionate or merely exploratory, but when Sirius licked into Remus’ armpit, he gasped.

A slight pause. Sirius did it again.

He scooted himself close so he could get his mouth right in. He kissed, lips pressing down against the hair, and then licked, into the hollow, then into the crease. He kissed again, then sucked.

It felt utterly strange. Sensitive, surprisingly sensitive despite the hair in the way, and—and—Sirius licked deeper, harder—and it was like— _what_ was it like? Then Remus realized that it was like the first time Sirius had eaten him out. The wrongness of it, the shock of a mouth in _that_ place, warm and dark and—dirty—Remus’ asshole, tender. Untouched. Remus’ armpit. The same. And of course, there was the…shape of it, the V, Sirius’ mouth buried in that V, and the…crisp tendrils of hair, the—the smell…

Sirius was eating him out.

Remus whimpered. He couldn’t stop whimpering. He didn’t know when he’d started, but he couldn’t stop. It was almost too much, the sensation, Sirius’ tongue relentless against that inside crease, that thin hidden stretch of skin, and—and—it was the _unplaceability_ of it, the way he couldn’t categorize what was happening to him, that familiar feeling but somewhere else in his body—

His cock was so stiff. It was pushing up against his pants. He didn’t feel like touching it; he didn’t have the attention to spare. He whined, because Sirius was _still licking_ ; still that strange sensation, being eaten out but—but in _that_ place, in—licking his armpit, why—why would Sirius want—

He writhed; he was being fucked but it was never going to make him come. That was okay. That was okay. Sirius’ tongue didn’t feel like a tongue anymore, but some strange invading thing, some relentless invader that just—kept—burrowing inside—

Sirius pulled back, panting. He wiped his mouth on the back of his wrist. He looked up at Remus; his eyes were a little glazed over.

“Wow. I…”

“Yeah."

“Lost myself there a bit.”

Remus swallowed. “I liked it.”

“I could tell.”

A silence. Remus’ cock was still hot and hard, but in a background sort of way, a hum in the distance.

“That was good for me,” Sirius said slowly. “It wasn’t…too much.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He reached up and petted Remus’ armpit hair, which was damp with spit. “You taste nice.”

Absurdly, Remus flushed.


End file.
